


Peace and Quiet

by Quiet_reader



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Poor Tony, Self-Harm, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:54:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_reader/pseuds/Quiet_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony did not have a good childhood. His father used to shut him up in a dark cupboard whenever he was too 'annoying'. Tony has always continued this form of abuse going as far as to build himself a sensory deprivation chamber. He uses it as both a way of self punishment, yet also as a way of quieting down his mind enough that he can sleep. Clint notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise in advance for what is not a particularly good story. This is my first fic and I'm pretty certain the characterisation is crap. I have to admit, I never intended to be a writer but I read some very good stories on this site so was vaguely inspired to give it a go. 
> 
> This is also unbeta'd. Sorry.

Dark. So dark. A darkness so deep that not even shadows were visible. Just... black. If something moved out there, it wouldn't be visible. There wasn't enough light to see. Not enough light to allow the eyes to adjust. Space? No. No thinking of space. No thinking. This was not like space. Space was stars. Explosions. Life winking out, blink by blink. Not this all consuming blackness. 

Sound? Silence. Hitched breaths... who? ...what? Those panicked sounds. A low-level keening. Breaths sounding as if they're physically restrained, only allowed up at the last moment. Hitching. Struggling. Ah, yes. Of course. His own. 

A faint vibrating sensation can be felt... That's not right. He shouldn't be able to feel the floor vibrating with the impact his fists have on it. Maybe if he builds another floor on top of this with a few centimetres of space in between. The cushion of air could lessen the vibrations of his fists slamming against the floor. It would lessen the already small amount of free space, but he couldn't have vibrations in here. Nothing. Not allowed. 

Slam. Smash. Slap. A sharp tearing sensation. Pain?

Was that a drop of liquid spitting from his clenched fists? Hitting him on his chin. What was causing that. No liquid was allowed in here. No clothes. No people. Nothing. Bad. Bad. He was bad! He'd broken a rule. There was something in here. Something that wasn't allowed. It wasn't! His tongue pulsed out of bitten, chapped lips, desperate to lap up the forbidden liquid. Strange. Copper? Why was there was a copper-y tasting liquid on his chin. Not quite a liquid. A bit too viscous to be defined as that. And a different liquid? Dripping onto his cheeks. More liquid! Not allowed!

So bad.

 _I'm sorry, Daddy..._

 

 

The quarters of their resident billionaire were not what one expected. Not what one Clint Barton expected, anyway. There wasn't a huge, opulent bed covered with the highest-thread count sheets that money could buy. It wasn't an area strewn with bits of in-the-process-of-being-fixed-yet-currently-broken electronics. Or even much in the way of well...things. It could quite easily have been a room in any of the luxurious hotels that Clint had seen (seen, never stayed in, cheap bastard bosses) during his life as an Agent of SHIELD. It was a bland, empty room lacking even the character or personality that was so reminiscent on the floors (floors! Not even just rooms!) that each of the members of the Avengers unit had been given. The attention to detail on those floors had spoken of an observant designer, one who had watched his teammates carefully and done his best to generate pleasing sanctuaries for them. Hell. He'd bite. More than sanctuaries, nests. Cosy, welcoming nests. That's what Tony had done for this miscreant band of misfits. Yet his own room didn't display anything like that level of thought. Even the colour scheme was bland - pale, beige walls, unadorned by art work, with a deep mint green carpet. Nothing which said...Tony. Unscuffed furniture. A depressingly normal looking bed. The only slightly unusual thing was the waist-height metal safe-like thing placed next to the wardrobe. Not taking that into account, it could've been a room from a catalogue. 

Clint cast his eyes over the room for a second time, scanning for hint of room's occupant. He'd promised the man that he'd give a report on those new deliciously wonderful arrow heads he'd been gifted with as soon as he'd finished trialling them. He'd now finished, yet appeared unable to find their maker. JARVIS had been unusually unhelpful, only stating that 'Sir was not working', a fact that Clint had quickly verified by physically checking the lab where he usually sequestered himself. Unusual for the man who could be normally found there at any hour of the day or night. Well, other than when he was at various meetings for SI This was the only other place he could conceivably be, after all, even genius's had to sleep some time? Right? Besides, Clint distinctly remembered overhearing Pepper tell Steve the previous day that she was concerned about Tony and that she was clearing his schedule for a day or two so he could rest. So, no. No meetings.

"Stark?" he called out, not expecting an answer, yet somehow unwilling to leave the room. Something was tugging at his sense of awareness. Something was _wrong_ in the eerie show-model room. Just wrong. Far too... Stepford. Clint didn't try to repress the snort of amusement. _That_ was not a concept he'd usually try to tie to the erratic man. With a sigh, Clint tried to lower his shoulders, force the tenseness from the muscles that was causing them to ride up. He was familiar with the sensation creeping over him, warning him, it was a sense that had never led him wrong yet on ops. Something his instinct had picked up on that his conscious mind was just too slow to find noteworthy. Just what was it... should he go get Tasha? She was far better at this close-detail work than him. He preferred to spot things from a distance. But no. That didn't seem right. Ever since that mission that Tasha had been so close-lipped about. That one where she had been undercover in SI, Tony had been vaguely... nervy around his fellow assassin. Not that she didn't deserve the degree of nerves! Clint could count on one hand the people he genuinely respected, and she easily made the cut. Strangely enough, so did Tony. 

There!

While Clint had allowed his mind to wander, his subconscious had automatically taken control and picked up on a faint...knocking sound? Emanating from that box. Safe. Whatever it was. The sound wasn't coming in any discernible rhythm that Clint could pick out. So... what? Could this be the next engineering wonder that Tony was working on? A box. That knocked. Clint's sense of unease ratcheted up another level until he was automatically scanning the room for areas he could duck into cover behind. Or things he could use as weapons. "Tony?" he called again, slowly advancing towards the box. Yes. Yes he was nosy. Curious. Whatever. Call it a pre-requisite to being a successful agent of SHIELD. You had to have a burning desire to _know_ things. Find them out. Track down the answers. And pay attention to your gut. 

Clint approached the metal safe cautiously, examining it from all angles. It appeared to have a handle on top of it adorned by what looked like an engraving of a cigar, of all things. Aside from that one nod to decoration it was completely plain, as unmarked and unscarred as the rest of the room. Clint resolutely ignored the distinct chill that wanted to walk it's way down the vertebrae of his spine. Something was inherently _wrong_ with this box and Clint knew that as well as he knew his bow. He knelt down next to it, hands roaming around the outer edges as he tried to fathom what it could possibly be used for, but the sharp edges revealed no secrets to the questing digits. With a disgruntled sound he stood once more and rested one hand lightly against the handle, ready to draw back swiftly if the movement generated a reaction. 

Nothing.

Even the light banging noise appeared to have drawn to a halt. 

With a slight smirk to himself - both Tasha and Coulson would be shaking their heads in frustration at him now, he decided there was nothing else for it, and pushed the handle downwards pulling up in the same motion so that door opened to reveal...

"Stark?!" 

This was. That. That was not expected! "JARVIS!" Clint snapped, one hand latching onto Tony's shoulder in a futile effort to check him for injuries. Blood was dripping down his chin and spattered across his face. It had to come from somewhere. "Report a security breach. Tony. Stark. has been attacked." How could this have happened? Why? What could someone have gained from this? How long had Tony been trapped in that tiny metal box, all crumpled up like some broken rag doll. Why hadn't JARVIS said something! Had he been hacked? 

"That response is inaccurate, Mr. Barton," came the unexpected reply from the familiar crisp English tones, overlayed by. Yes, there was. Overlayed by a hint of concern. Stark was a fucking genius. A robot which felt concern. "Sir put himself in there willingly." Wait. Holdup. 

"Willingly?" Had JARVIS been hacked and his security cameras interfered with? 

"Regrettably, yes. It is for Sir to discuss these reasons with you, rather than me."

And that was that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the response to the first chapter - surprised!
> 
> The beginning few paragraphs on this chapter seem like they're taking a long time, but the majority of it is internal thought process, so happens pretty quickly. Clint isn't just sitting around for hours on end debating things to himself. :-) 
> 
> I tried to come up with some phrasing in-story to explain that, but couldn't get the wording right, so decided I'd just post it and write that here. Apologies. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy. :)

Clint took a moment to scowl to himself, trying to work out how best to act from here. Crazy genius, billionaire, playboy, yadda yadda friend seeming to have some form of mental breakdown. Did he say crazy? Maybe add a bit of batshit insane onto that list. With a show of self-control he was absolutely not famed for, Clint gave a strictly mental sigh (Hah! Take that Coulson. ‘Struggles to control impulses’ my arse!). What did he know? What were the facts of this situation? Tony had for some reason placed himself into this metal box here, willingly, according to his possibly broken AI. There was no way Clint was disregarding the notion that the AI could have been hacked. Stark just shoving himself in here just seemed so unrealistic. How best to get him out? The man hadn’t seemed to react to the door (lid?) being opened, had he even been able to tell? His eyes were covered (had they been covered by someone else?) by a black piece of fabric. He was definitely conscious though – the slamming of his fists on the ground evidently showed that. In fact, that might be where the blood was coming from. The way he was sitting there, his whole body hunched up around his knees, squashed in to make sure he fit inside the box. That horrific almost whining sound he was making, as if he were trying to speak but didn’t have the capability to form words, so just made this unending low sound. The way he was on the edge of hyperventilation… it tugged at heart strings that Clint was unaware he had.

It had been some time since Clint had last felt this uncertain how to act. A large chunk of him was eager to get out and around the Tower to see if there were interlopers present. It was highly likely they’d been infiltrated and that JARVIS had been hacked. Yet… What if there was something seriously wrong with Tony? Or what if they came back to finish off the job? That was a very real concern – JARVIS could have already reported to them that Clint had found Tony; they could be on their way back. Clint’s free arm immediately fell to his side, right by where he kept his derringer and he took a quick mental tally of the weapons he was carrying. The familiar feeling of his nylon holster against his skin gave him an odd sense of comfort. Right. Weapons. Not enough to last a sustained assault, but hopefully enough to get them by. Particularly if they were joined by Tasha as he hoped. His best option was definitely to stay with Stark and protect him. The more lucid the other man was the better. That suited what he really wanted to do anyway; help this man. His teammate. The thought of leaving him in this state, even if it was the tactically sound thing to do, filled the archer with a deep sense of self-loathing and rage. Let’s get him sane again.

“Come on Tony, quit that. Can you hear me To- Stark? Tony?” Clint knelt down and reached into the chest once more, closing his hands around the older man’s spasming hands. “JARVIS, can you ask Tasha to come here, please?” the words were hurriedly bit out in contrast to the politeness of the actual language used. If JARVIS was being controlled somehow, he most likely wouldn’t send Tasha in, and if he did? Then there could be someone else aware of this possible situation. “Come on, man. Calm down. Listen to me, yeah Tony? You’re here, with me, Clint. Not wherever you think you are. The box is open and you’re safe now, you got it?” As he spoke, Clint forcibly made sure his pitch returned to the more soothing tone it had held when he previously spoke to the spooked man. Was this some form of flashback? The other man was still struggling to beat his fists against the ground despite the iron grip the archer held around them. Yet it appeared as though his words were having an effect – his head was moving upwards from its prior position of staring at the ground. “That’s right, Tony. Come on back to me. You’re doing well, real well. Can you hear me? Feel me?” As the archer spoke, he began to move his thumbs in gentle around the exposed skin on the billionaire’s wrists. At least, he hoped it was gentle movements – his hands were harsh and calloused from the hours of physical training and bow-work he’d done over his life. Still, Tony’s hands weren’t exactly baby-soft either. He definitely did most of his engineering work himself - that was obvious in the man’s calloused skin. Anyway. Distraction. Tony definitely seemed to be coming back to himself at any rate; the softly murmured burbling was doing the trick. “There we go, Tony. That’s the way, can you look at me? I’m going to remove the blindfold, and then we can see about getting you out of there, hey? How’s that sound?” 

Clint was close enough that he could physically see Tony’s throat muscles bob up and down as he swallowed in an attempt to generate sufficient saliva to talk. Had the man been drugged, maybe? Many different drugs caused the mouth to dry out… and some of them could engineer hallucinations which could have caused the man to act the way he had been… but he wasn’t showing any other signs. Eye contact. That was what was needed. Then Clint could look at his pupils and get a better idea of his levels of clarity. Although he hadn’t made a sound yet, he equally hadn’t shaken his head to show denial. So hopefully that would work as assent. “I’m just going to reach out and touch your cheek first, alright Tony?” 

Clint slowly let go of one of Tony’s clenched fists, ready to grab it again if it looked like the shaken man was going to start slamming it into the ground again. The bloodied fist, however, remained still, almost as though it were still being held up by strings. Creepy. It wasn’t even trembling like the tremors which shook the rest of the man’s body. Just a trickle of blood running down his wrist. Pushing the concern to the back of his mind for the moment, Clint reached down with his hand, listening as carefully as he could to pick up any further sound other than the gasping breaths of his friend. He placed his fingers gently on the other man’s cheek, pleased beyond thought when the man didn’t flinch away. “Good, well done. That went better than I thought it would. Now I’m going to move up to get rid of that old cloth, right?” He waited a moment in hopes that there would be some form of response, before doing exactly as he said. The knot was relatively easy to undo under the archer’s dexterous fingers, and the cloth swiftly slipped down Tony’s face so it hung half over one shoulder. As the man’s reddened (had he been crying?) eyes were revealed, looking unerringly in the direction of Clint’s face, Clint forced a smile to cross over his lips. “Hey there, good lookin’. How you feeling?” As he spoke he made sure to maintain eye contact with the billionaire, though did his best to keep his eyebrow ridges soft so as to ensure the sustained eye contact didn’t feel threatening to Tony (thank you, Tasha! Body language expert!) The other man’s eyes were tinted in red which supported either the tears or the drug theory. Yet he seemed to be tracking movement well, and his pupils reacted well enough to the influx of light. He also wasn’t responding to Clint’s verbal prompting. Next stage time.

“Come on, Tony. Let’s get you out of there; it sure doesn’t look overly comfortable in there.” Again. No reaction. Tony just continued to sit there, one hand suspended in mid-air, the other wrapped up in Clint’s gentle grasp, and stared directly into Clint’s eyes, shivers wracking his body and blood dribbling down his wrist. “You’re not going to start trying to punish the floor again if I let go of your other hand, hey Tones?” Clint sharpened his grin slightly into a smirk, hoping that the slight dash of humour could help the situation. “No? Not biting? Alright-y, I’m going to let go and stand up, then we can see about getting you out o-“ 

The sound of near silent footsteps padding their way down the hallway caused Clint to stop speaking mid-word and spin around to face the door, derringer in hand and other hand fondling a knife blade that had previously been tucked into his angle, both unerringly aimed in the direction of the door. He was careful to position himself in between Tony and the entrance, which was not the best defensive position in the room, but there was no way that the archer could leave the other man undefended. Those footsteps, they sounded too quiet to be anyone but Tasha – he wouldn’t have heard them if he hadn’t been listening so acutely for any further sound, but still. He was a firm believer in _not_ shutting the barn door after the horse had fled. And other people/assassins could walk as quietly as Tasha. Coulson, for instance, it wasn’t unheard of. “Clint?” that voice. That was Tasha. She’d have called him Barton if she was being co-erced. His taut muscles relaxed as he called back, already turning back around to Tony as he replaced his weapons,

“In here.” The footsteps continued until he heard her push the door open and enter the room. 

“What’s the sitrep? JARVIS told me you needed me in here?” 

Clint, stood to one side slightly, allowing the metal box and it’s occupant to become visible. 

“I came in here and this was shut. Tony was in it. Still trying to work out what happened but Stark’s mentally compromised so I didn’t want to leave him.” There. That gave his partner enough information, she should be able to deduce his concerns from what he hadn’t said; namely that he hadn’t mentioned how Tony had come to be in the box. 

Only a slight furrowing of the brow betrayed the concern Natasha felt as she stepped closer to the pair, “Stark?” the lack of response caused her to frown further before looking to Clint. “I’ll go and check on the others, you stay here with Stark.” Clint did not remove his eyes from the man within the box to nod his head, though he noted out the corner of his eye the woman’s raised eyebrow. They would be having conversations on his unprofessional attitude and actions later, he was sure. Joy. Still, that was a future problem, now was the time to think on the current ones. 

“Rendezvous here in ten?” If she wasn’t back within the ten minutes then he would know she’d got into trouble of some sort. Natasha, not wasting time with words, just nodded sharply before turning and heading out of Tony’s bedroom at an easy trot. Clint returned the majority of his attention to the man before him feeling immeasurably better. His partner was probably the most competent person he knew, if there was a situation in the Tower, she would find it, and sort it out. He would still keep an ear out for further movement though. “Right, sorry for that, Tones. Let’s go back to getting you out of there, hey?” In all the time Natasha had been present, Tony hadn’t reacted at all that Clint had noticed. Something which was ratcheting up his concern levels to uncomfortable heights. Was there some severe injury that Clint hadn’t noticed? There weren’t any of the signs of one. Yet Tony was just so unresponsive… Only one way to find out.

Clint moved so that he was side by side next to Tony, and gently lowered the raised arm so that it was wrapped around his own shoulders. The whole while he murmured what he hoped were comforting words to the other man, telling him precisely what he was doing before doing it so as to not startle him. When the arm felt secure, Clint reached into the box to wrap his own arm around Tony’s shoulders, grasping his other arm before pulling the pair of them to a standing position. Thankfully, Tony’s muscles didn’t seem to be sharing the paralysis that his brain was, and did not resist any of Clint’s efforts. “There we go, Tony. That’s good, now to get you out of there…” Clint looked over the billionaire, gaining an estimate of how much the other man would weigh. He had a lithe form, compounded by the fact he just did not eat very much, yet it was bound to be quite heavy due to the working out he did both in battle and in the lab. Clint knew for a fact that he could pack a punch – had experienced that one more times than he cared to think about in the gym. Still, he should be able to carry him for a few moments, and when Tony was better the teasing factor over having to be carried like a Princess would be nigh! 

Clint swung his second arm so it was at about at Tony’s waist, carefully not thinking how close it was to the other man’s backside, and maneuvered himself so he was nearly flush against the other man, and most definitely _not_ thinking about that. He just wasn’t. Injured team mate here. Injured team mate. Just getting close to get the right angles to pick him up. That was all. With a grunt of effort, Clint used his own impressive arm muscles (hey, archer, right? Had to have some benefits after all the teasing he got for using such outdated weaponry) Anyway, Clint heaved upwards with one arm, sliding the other down as more of the billionaire’s body was withdrawn from the box. As soon as he was able to, he wrapped his other arm around Tony’s lower body, cradling him safely within his arms. “I got you, Princess. Though next time we do this? Shed some fucking pounds! You do realise what you’re missing out on here, your highness? Han Solo quotes! You’d better dress up in Leia’s slave girl outfit, or something, as thanks for this. That’d give me some great blackmail material.” Clint continued letting his mouth run without check as he made his way to Tony’s depressingly normal-sized bed, and lowered himself down onto it, panting lightly. He wasn’t quite ready to let Tony out of the safe encirclement of his arms, despite knowing that he had better have his hands free in case of attack. Damn billionaires.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Warning*** Suicidal thoughts occur in this chapter. 
> 
> Also, I've done a bit of hopping around with the POV a bit here. Would someone please mind telling me if it's clear? I think it is, but then I wrote it so it'd be a pretty poor show if it wasn't clear! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I'm going away on Sunday for a fortnight where I'm not sure what my internet connection will be like. I'm going to try to update before then, but have a gazillion and two things to get done. Will definitely be writing while I'm away though. :-) 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudo's, I really, really appreciate them. Check my emails far too often. *laughs*
> 
> (and yes! I'm continuing the trend! This chapter was longer than the previous one. Soon you guys might even get a chapter of a half-decent length out of me if the pattern continues!)

Clint allowed himself a moment to just breathe as he considered his options. Humour wasn’t seeming to bring Tony out of his…whatever this was. Fugue? Flashback? Unimportant. He’d even done an imitation of a saloon girl with his ‘hey there, good lookin’. Even _that_ hadn’t had a result. He was reluctant to attempt Tasha’s favourite tried and tested method of ‘cognitive recalibration’, otherwise known as giving someone a slap round the face mainly because Tony had already caused himself pain in the slamming of his fists on the ground. If that hadn’t worked, then why would slapping him have any effect? He _had_ seemed to respond to the light contact though, that combined with the babbling that Clint had been doing at the same time seemed to get through to him. Clint could work with that. He’d resort to more desperate attempts later, first course of action should be to work out if the man was drugged or stuck in his own head. The trembling which was coursing through the billionaire’s upper torso and arms were indicative of some form of panic attack, as was the unusual pallor to the normally tanned skin and the hitched attempts at breathing. The complete levels of unresponsiveness however leant more towards the drugged angle… yet Clint had seen other Agents in flashbacks become like this before. Depersonalisation the shrinks called it, a sort of detachment from yourself. Clint hadn’t experienced it himself, but he had seen it in action. The more the archer observed Tony, the more he thought that this was a psychotic episode rather than chemically caused. Let’s work with that.

Clint, keeping one arm encircling the billionaire, scooted closer so that his thigh was lined up against the other man’s in hope that the additional contact would help to ground him. He gently continued to rub his hand against the man’s shoulder in what he hoped was a soothing gesture reversing the motion every now and again so it didn’t become too repetitive and therefore unnoticeable. 

“Hey, Tony. It’s time to come back now, I’m fairly certain you’re stuck in your head, probably in the mother of all panic attacks. Man, you’re going to kill me for seeing you like this later, aren’t you? Just don’t put ‘Birdie’ or anything like that on my gravestone will you? I will haunt you if you do that. Fair warning. Anyway. You just need to know you’re out of that box-thing right now, and Tasha’s gone to check on the others. Me and her’ll look after you, right? We’ll keep you safe. Then we can have a real bro-moment and compare dick sizes or something. Just to prove to Tasha how hard and manly we are. Not that I mean ‘hard’ in that sense! Hard as in tough. Definitely hard as in tough. Though she’ll probably whip out her own and make us both look like right pussies.” Clint couldn’t help himself, despite the situation he let out a snicker at the idea of the three of them comparing dick sizes. Well. Not that Tasha actually, you know, _had_ a dick. But it was the thought that counted. “Though you building a mechanical one just to make sure you win is cheating, just so you know. There’s no shame in being smaller than me. Eight foot dicks just aren't cool, got it? No matter what the kids these days are saying. Just not cool.” 

As he spoke he carefully kept his attention split – half of it listening out for the slightest sound, and half watching Tony’s face, his body, doing his best to track any changes that were happening. Were his words working? Tony’s eyes were still locked on his face, though they were blinking every now and again. That hadn’t changed. Though… it did seem like his trembling was lessening slightly, and his face muscles… they were looking less, less slack? Was that the word? “There we go, Tones! You’re hearing me, aren’t you? I know you can. Fancy trying to blink for me? Come on, Princess. Flutter those gorgeous eyelashes at me. Show me how pretty your eyes are, or I might pour out all your coffee beans or something!” 

“…bastard…”

Clint was just drawing in breath to continue his rambles when he took note of the word that hung in the air, spoken in a voice so quiet it was barely louder than the hyperventilating breaths the man was trying to take. “…did you say something, Tony? Did you really manage to respond because I threatened your coffee?” There! That right there! That was definitely the barest hint of a nod. It wasn’t an effect of the shaking wracking the billionaire’s body, Clint was certain. “Welcome back,” that was said with a gentle smile foreign to the archer’s face. “Now how about we start work on your breathing, hey? Blue-lipstick just isn’t the look for you. Listen to your stylists, for once. They know what they’re doing much better than you do.” And that! That was the hint of a snicker passing a billionaire’s lips. It wasn’t the full on chortle which would occasionally burst from the man when he surprised by being amused by what someone had said. It was a breathy, failure attempt of that wonderful laugh Clint so loved to listen to. But it was definitely a response! “There we go, Tony. You’re getting there. Now just try to slow down on the breathing; there is plenty of oxygen in here. I’m sure you could give me equations telling me how much precisely if you thought about it. I know it probably doesn’t feel like much as I’m imagining your throats feeling pretty tight right now. But it is there. It really is. I promise. So let’s try taking a deep breath in, and holding it for a second, then letting it out. Maybe start listing some of those funky number sequences you secretly jack off to. The tetranacci sequence or something. Do it backwards! Or miss out every third number.” 

There! Again! Another attempted snort at laughter. And yes, points to the archer, ladies and gentlemen! The billionaire’s breathing was slowing down, becoming steadier. He was still looking unsteady enough that Clint was pretty certain that he would slump over if Clint wasn’t holding him up, but hey? Improvement was improvement.

“…3, 7, 12…36, 401… 2- 2707, 8417…” 

Clint blinked once. Twice. “You realise that I don’t even know if that’s correct or not, yes? A blonde like me. Not bred for my brains.” There, Tony’s lips were twitching again, this time in a smile. 

“…don’t. Dumb. Not dumb.”

Clint blinked once more, a funny feeling taking over his own throat. Even in this state, when he could barely hold his thoughts together long enough to get words out, Tony didn’t allow him to talk badly about himself. Was there truly _anyone_ on this earth that was quite like this man? Not that Clint had met, that was for certain. “Hey. No back-chatting the knight in shining armour, damsel! You concentrate on your breathing.” Though it did look like he was beginning to get himself under control once more. His skin was beginning to lose the pallor it had previously held, though it still wasn’t quite right. He was still trembling, but not with the same violence that had nearly caused Clint’s frame to vibrate as well. Most importantly, those all-important breaths were beginning to take on a much steadier sound to them. They were still too short, but were no longer sounding quite so… gaspy? So desperate. Clint continued to gently stroke Tony’s shoulder rhythmically; the other man hadn’t protested the movement. In fact, he appeared to be pressing himself into Clint’s stronger frame. Now, whether that was because he didn’t yet have the strength to hold himself upright, or whether it was because he was seeking comfort Clint couldn’t tell. He certainly wasn’t going to ask! Just by asking he could cause the prickly engineer to withdraw completely probably with added barbs as well! Of that he was certain. 

It was at that moment that the sound of footsteps padding their way down the corridor reached Clint’s twitching ears. Without moving from his position of being entwined around the billionaire, he released his derringer once more, aiming it at the door with the same casual ease as he ignored Tony’s now furrowed brow. Nobody was going to harm Tony. He would just not allow it. He was pretty certain it was Tasha - his internal clock noted that unbelievably only ten minutes had past. But still. Remember that whole thought about the gate and the horse? That hadn't changed.

“Sassoon,” came from the corridor in Natasha’s lilting voice, and all the tension drained from Clint’s muscles as he holstered his weapon. The code word was just one that Natasha and himself had set up in their long partnership with each other. They both enjoyed reading more than one might suspect from a pair of assassins, and both enjoyed poetry. Sassoon, or rather, Siegfried Sassoon was a poet from World War I who had had a particular way with words that Natasha favoured. One of his poems had been called ‘In the Pink’, so that had become their code for meaning ‘All’s clear’ when Natasha said it. For Clint, he used the word ‘Holland’ from the poet Henry Scot Holland who had written the poem ‘All is Well’. To have used the code words so openly like that rather than in some form of irrelevant sentence meant that they had been able to check their suspicions out to their hearts content and everything was truly 100% peachy. So essentially, JARVIS hadn’t been hacked and the rest of the team were fine. It didn't even occur to him to disbelieve her. 

Clint tilted his head back down so that his full attention was now focused on Tony, smiling slightly, “all’s well, Tones. All’s absolutely fine. How do you feel about a visit from Charlotte?” It was only Tony’s wide-eyed look that caused Clint to duck his head in time to hear the far too familiar ‘schtiiing’ of a blade going flying over his head and embedding itself in the wall. “Hey!” he turned his head to glare at his black-clad fellow assassin who was standing in the doorway, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arched slightly. “We didn’t say you could come in yet! Cootie bringer!” 

Natasha sniffed. _sniffed!_ at him, before sauntering into the room, her hips swaying in an almost subconscious movement that caught men’s attention from miles away. Almost subconscious. “Stop whining, Barton.” She groused, before lowering her eyebrow and purposefully softening her gaze as she turned her attention to Tony who, deciding it best to let the two duke it out in peace, had gone back to focusing on regulating his breathing.

Natasha made her way over to the bed and crouched next to it in a movement filled with such inherent grace that it made Clint wish for just a moment that he hadn’t known he was gay since he first kissed Susie Miller behind the coconut shy when he was fifteen. But alas. His preferences were set in stone, much to the loss of the poor females of the world.

“How are you feeling, Stark?” she asked in a tone so gentle that Clint looked at her askance for a moment. What had happened in those interim ten minutes? He hadn’t noticed when she’d first walked in – most of his attention had still been on Stark, and you know, ducking blades trying to chop his head off, but there was something… off about her. She’d learnt something, and it had… softened her? Shocked her? He’d seen her with Agents post panic attacks before, and whereas she didn’t act as brusque with them as she normally would, she hadn’t been this gentle and…motherly? Clint watched in complete confusion as she reached out with one hand, slowly, so slowly, as though Tony would dart away at any moment, laid her hand to rest on his lower forearm, just above his wrist. Her frown returned momentarily as she glared at the blood drying there, daring it to mar the skin of someone she had come to care for, before she consciously smoothed out her facial expression once again. 

“Peachy,” came the breathy reply from the billionaire trying to tally up his knowledge of the spy/assassin with what he was seeing now. Was this only because he was being so pathetic? Why was she acting this way? Was she going to be mad at him in a moment for reacting like this? He should be better than this. He should have more self-control. Not be so weak. He shouldn’t have been found. If they hadn’t come in, then he’d have sorted himself out. What were they going to think? They’d hate him. Shut him in. Unplug his control panel so he couldn’t open the door. Never let him out. Days and days and days. Silence. Black! Can’t see! Can’t breathe. Can’t! Can’t! Can’t! 

“-ony! Tony!” A bizarre feeling as his shoulder, a sort of rocking back and forth sensation as something moved it. Shook it? A warm feeling wrapped around his upper torso, spreading heat through the frozen ice which surrounded the rest of him. Another warm feeling wrapped around his hand, rubbing it? “-on Tony. Breathe!” Right. Breathing. He could do that, couldn’t he? That was that whole thing where lungs expanded, brought in oxygen and expelled carbon dioxide. Different from carbon Monoxide. That was nasty, poisonous stuff. Good way of killing yourself though. Just shut yourself into an enclosed area, and get the car going. One of his muscle cars should do the trick. Heh. Maybe the ’67 model Impala he’d brought when he realised how enamoured Clint was with that show with the eye candy in it. Supernatural. Clint. _Clint!_ That’s who was currently yelling at him. Shaking his shoulders with a panicked note in his voice.

Tony’s eyes flew open (when had he closed them?) just as a rush of air suddenly exploded past the iron band which had suddenly wrapped itself around his lungs. He would have fallen forward with the strength of the coughs that suddenly assailed his body if it hadn’t been for the pair of hands on each shoulder and the warm body knelt in front of him that steadied him. Another hand, smaller than the other two the part of his mind that rarely shut the fuck up analytically noted, patted him gently, trying to help him dislodge the pocket of air that must’ve been caught somewhere within his oesophagus. 

Slowly. So slowly. After what felt like eons had passed the dull ringing that had been present in his ears since he initially shut himself into the box began to fade and his breath began to come to him as easily as it ever did with a giant hunk of metal imbedded within his chest. His thoughts… they felt like sludge. A big, thick, dark patch of mud that oozed and popped at half the speed of everything else in existence. That was usual after one of his ‘sessions’. It was a feeling he almost craved. One of the reasons he put himself through hell. When his thoughts were like this, crashed out after holding all that adrenaline of panic, then he could sleep. And it was a restful sleep too. It was as if his whole body was too exhausted to sustain the nightmares that normally attacked him when he usually succumbed to tiredness. His mind. His genius mind. He couldn’t imagine living without it, yet sometimes… sometimes he just grew so tired of having four or five different thoughts happening at the same time. This. This … thing that he did to himself. That was partially a coping mechanism. He knew it was sick, and twisted. Fucked up. But it worked. Drugs didn’t. Sex didn’t. Even the adrenaline after a pants-shitting battle didn’t do quite the same job. 

Besides. The fact that he _could_ do this was the biggest ‘fuck you’ to his old man that he could think of. Those times when he’d been shut in the cellar with a blind fold on and his ears stopped up. When his father had bellowed at him that just wanted a ‘minutes peace and quiet!’ and couldn’t he just ‘leave him the fuck alone and stop being a moronic idiot!’. Those times hadn’t broken him. He’d screamed his way through them initially, scratched his fingers raw in attempts to find his way out. Then his father had begun gagging him. One day… He’d just stopped screaming. Just… stopped. 

Then his parents. His Mom. Jarvis. They’d… they’d. 

He no longer had anyone who’d dare tell him when he was overstepping the lines. He didn’t have any friends, was too … _Tony_ for them. All apart from one James Rhodey. He used to tell him when he was being too much. But then he’d joined the forces, and the times they saw each other dwindled. The friendship remained strong, but he wasn’t there for that daily interaction. So Tony drew his own lines. Whether they were in keeping with society’s wishes or not, he wasn’t sure. Sometimes he suspected not. But by that stage the world was used to the persona he lived, so he had to keep on forcing himself to step over that line over and over again. Keep being _Tony Stark_. And… each time he knew he was too much? He shut himself away. Refused to let himself scream. Would occasionally come out with scrapes or bruises, but those were easily passed away as accidents from the workshop. And now? Now he could afford to be less _Tony_. He had a team, and he was meant to represent them in a far different fashion. He didn’t need to make the headlines any longer. Iron Man could do that. Yet… he was so used to having to be Tony, he still got it wrong. He saw it in the curl of the lips of Captain America. In the glares he received from Fury. He counted them. When he’d received 5 glares, or 5 lip-curls, then he’d tell JARVIS to not allow anyone in, and to ignore any commands from him. He’d take himself to his box. Blindfold himself. Shut himself in. And wait. When his mind reached this stage? He’d key in the code to the pad attached to the inner side of the box. The handle would magnetically snap open. He’d exit. Should he have security measures? Yes. Did he? Fuck off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should probably have mentioned in the previous chapter that Clint referring to Natasha as ‘Charlotte’ was meant to be a reference to E. B. White’s children’s book ‘Charlotte’s Web’. (Charlotte is the name of the spider in that) If you haven’t read it. Do so. Now. 
> 
> http://www.amazon.com/gp/offer-listing/0064400557/ref=sr_1_1_olp?ie=UTF8&qid=1378480547&sr=8-1&keywords=Charlot%27es+web&condition=used There’s a link where you can buy it.
> 
> Hey folks, question to you more experienced writers out there. Not sure if I’m allowed to do that, but you’re the ones who have to read my attempts at this, so seems fair you should get some input!
> 
> I’ve been trying to avoid repetition of the same word over and over again, such as ‘Clint’ or ‘Tony’ so tend to replace them with fandom-accepted terms ‘the engineer/billionaire/genius/archer/spy’ etc. Yet I still seem to be using a lot of these style nouns. I’m not sure if I’m just using poor sentence structure, or if I’m just being overly critical of my own writing. Is there a way to avoid this? Every second word seems to be a noun referring to either Clint/Tony/Natasha, yet I can't figure out a word structure which avoids this. Other than using incessant ‘he’s’ which could get a tad confusing! Many thanks, and apologies if I’m being a bother, but my google-fu failed me and didn’t give me any advice.

Chapter 4:

His eyes opened once again, (seriously. When had they closed this time?) to find his head resting on the pleasant shoulder belonging to the resident archer. Had Clint’s muscles always been that big? Those were…impressive. Maybe he was only noticing it now due to the closeness of his eyes to them.

“Hey, you with us?” Interesting. Apparently when your head was resting on someone’s shoulder you could feel their voice rumbling as they spoke. It felt…nice. As did the hand that was rubbing up and down his back oh so soothingly. Like how he’d always imagined a mother would comfort a child. It made him feel cared for. Loved? Not possible. Not for someone like him. But surely no one would mind if he relished in the warmth that hand was generating. He was just so cold, almost like the Capsicle must’ve felt, buried in the ice. So cold. So tired. Was just too hard. To. To think… Sleep…

A quiet chuckle reverberated through the chest that was so nicely holding him up. “Alright, Tony. Sleep. I’ve got you.” Huh. He’d been speaking? Oooh… that was nice. Someone was wrapping a blanket around his shoulders and tucking the corners around him. Yet that lovely warm hand was still moving up and down his back under the blanket. Life had gotten good. The weights that someone had so unkindly attached to his eyelids seemed to be pulling them downwards. Maybe JARVIS had turned the gravity up? Could he do that? If he had, Tony was powerless to resist as he allowed his rebellious lids to slip closed once more. Just for a little bit. 

Clint and Natasha remained seated on Tony’s bed in silence for maybe ten minutes, with Clint continuing his hand’s soothing strokes. Both remained nearly motionless, statuesque other than the breaths that expanded and deflated their lungs in instinctive tandem with each other. “Reckon we can move him a little bit without disturbing him? He’ll wake up with a sore neck otherwise.” Clint murmured in a low tone. Natasha nodded, her eyes focused sharply on the slumbering billionaire, unvoiced thoughts running through them.

“He looks pretty out of it. Where do you want him?” 

A lascivious grin spread across the archer’s lips. Really. If Natasha was going to feed him lines like that. “Well…” he did not get past that word before his fellow spy’s eyes flickered up to meet his, and _narrowed_. Shit. Scary woman. Shutting up now. “We should just move him so he’s lying down a bit more, can put a pillow in my lap or something. I kind of want to keep the contact with him – seemed to keep him a bit calmer before.” At that he watched as Natasha arched a single eyebrow and smirked at him, the reaction causing a godforsaken _blush_ to creep over his cheeks. “Not like that!” his slightly louder tone of voice immediately caused those previously amused eyes to harden into a glare as he simultaneously winced. Right. Sleeping billionaire. Quiet voice on now please. Thankfully though his moment of carelessness hadn’t even caused a wrinkle in the man’s brow. 

“If you can come here and support his head, then I’ll shuffle backwards and we can lie him down.” Natasha, not wasting time with words, nodded and shifted herself so that Tony’s head was able to rest in one hand whilst the other went to his shoulder to offer better support. As soon as she was in place, Clint put his words into action and shuffled backwards, trusting his partner implicitly to support Tony. With one hand he reached out to snag a pillow from where it was resting against the headboard and placed it in his lap before nodding at Tasha. She slowly yet steadily lowered her hands, lowering the sleeping man down until he was safely ensconced within Clint’s lap. The man in question emitted a quiet grunt, his closed eye-lids crinkling slightly as the eyes beneath them rolled around. Clint quickly replaced his hand on Tony’s back and renewed the undulating up and down movements as Tasha moved the blanket that had fallen off so it covered the man’s entire frame. The discontented rumblings soon soothed away as Clint added on a quiet “Hush now, Tony. Sleep. We’ve got your back.” 

The pair resumed their silent vigil until they were certain that engineer was once again within the clutches of peaceful sleep. "Shit..." Clint breathed, flicking his eyes up to glance at Tasha before refocusing them on Tony once more, remains of the bone-drenching fear that had briefly clutched at him easily visible. When Tony had looked like he was sinking back into that ...fugue state... this time with added panic. He'd completely stopped breathing for far too many heartbeats, something that sent Clint's own heart racing. That was just not allowed. Tony was not allowed to stop breathing. He glanced upwards again when a hand rested gently on an billionaire-blanketed part of his knee. "He's fine," she whispered, concern reflected within her own eyes. "A bit broken, but he'll be fine." Clint forced himself to nod in agreement before turning his gaze back to the sleeping man, determinedly watching each breath. In. Out. In. Out. “He looks so… peaceful.” Natasha murmured a short while later, her eyes focused on the slumbering man’s expression. ¬She wasn’t wrong. This was a man who’s expressive face was nearly always in some form of motion, generating some expression or other. Sometimes his energy seemed so boundless that he came across as being brittle with it, but you could never tell that from his face. 

A fond smile crossed over Clint’s face. Despite the fact they’d been on a team together for over a year now, this was the first time that he’d seen the man asleep. The rest of them would frequently doze off in the common room over a film after tough missions. Even Natasha and himself had been spotted. JARVIS reputedly was collecting snapshots in a folder titled ‘Let Sleeping Avengers Lie’. That rumour had never been confirmed. But never Tony. No matter how exhausted, how battered he was, the billionaire would always spend the hours following a battle in his workshop fixing the suit so that it was fit to fight again. Clint had gone to talk to him once after a particularly gruelling mission and found the man quite seriously in his cups. So, like the clever spy he was, he took advantage of the situation and started getting answers out of the man. Tony apparently took offence to any injury he received. Not because he was injured, no, that would’ve been sensible. So of course he didn’t care about that. It was because any injury he took was because he had screwed up. He hadn’t put a heavy enough bit of plating there. Hadn’t anticipated needing extra wiring here. It was a direct _error_ that had caused the injury. And while it was apparently acceptable that Tony himself was injured, the idiotic genius was unable to remove the thought from his mind that someone else _might_ have been injured from his supposed error. Just the possibility of that forced him to perform a penance and fix the suit, no matter how much he craved rest. 

Clint had of course tried to talk to the infuriating man about this when he was sober, but all that got him was being locked out of the lab for the following week. As this experience was teaching him, however, maybe the man’s self-flagellation issues were stronger than he realised. 

“What changed, Tasha? You came back viewing Ton-ark differently. What’d you find out?” They’d both been dodging the issue right in front of them, not wanting to lose the feeling of calm that had overtaken the room. Procrastination time was over. Natasha glanced towards him, and he could _see_ her turning over words in her mind, deciding what she could tell him, deciding what she _should_ tell him. “Don’t do that. Don’t try to keep things from me.” The archer’s words gained a hard edge to them that he rarely took with his partner, despite being careful to keep the volume low enough so as not to disturb Tony. “I know there are things about Tony that you know that I don’t due to that mission a few years or so. I didn’t ask then as I assumed that if Tony wanted to tell us, he would. This is different. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone have such a severe... episode. I thought he might have been drugged. He needs help, and it looks like we’ll be the ones helping him. To do that I need information. Don’t withhold that from me. Just…don’t.” 

Natasha continued to stare at him steadily, unblinkingly, and Clint held her gaze with ease. Whether she heard the things he wasn’t saying, about how he _needed_ to know, he wasn’t sure. He was fast becoming attached to Tony in a way he hadn’t become attached to many people in his life at all. If this was a mission, he’d definitely classify himself as being ‘compromised’ and withdraw from it. When he’d seen Tony in such a state he _hadn’t_ been able to leave him. He’d justified it to himself with tactical logic, trying to convince himself, but the truth was that even without those justifications he wouldn’t have left him. Couldn’t have done it. That was something that needed to be dealt with, probably a conversation with Coulson was in order. But now was not the time. 

Something in his eyes must have convinced the woman as her head dipped in an accepting nod. “I spoke to JARVIS,” she began, raising a hand to forestall the words that long to burst from him. “I first of all asked him to show me a live feed of all the others, then proceeded to contact Rogers and asked him to move his hand from left to right to prove that it was live. JARVIS proceeded to explain to me that Stark had indeed put himself in that…thing. He showed me video evidence of him entering it perfectly willingly, several times.” The spy’s eyes narrowed in distaste as they shifted to the side to indicate the metal crate. Or maybe she was just trying to avoid Clint’s gaze? “He briefly explained that this linked back to Stark’s childhood when his ‘father’” and there she almost spat the word out, so great was her hatred for the figure it represented, used to lock him in similar devices for hours, if not days, at a time. He would be blindfolded, and have earplugs in to limit his sensory intake. Then his… that _сукин сын_ (son of a bitch) would hit him. JARVIS said that this was before his creation, so he was unsure of Tony’s exact injuries, but his medical records are pretty much empty right up until he was fifteen and went to MIT. No child has no medical records, particularly one who played around with as many dangerous materials as Tony did… How could he? He was his… his Father! His папочка (Daddy). Tony. Stark. He continues this …habit as a way of punishing himself for when he thinks he has annoyed us too much. Sometimes it’s the only way he can sleep. He can’t imagine a life without being a disappointment, and fears that he has to be punished for being so.”

And then her voice broke. Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow. Feared throughout more countries than he cared think about. Her voice broke. Throughout the entire tirade, Natasha’s voice had barely risen above the low tone they had adopted when Tony first fell asleep. The volume didn’t prevent the menace laden within every word. Every syllable. If Clint wasn’t struggling with a similar anger himself, he’d have been glad that Howard was dead. If he was alive? He wouldn’t have been for long. Yet why was Natasha reacting so strongly? With the tortures she’d been put through in the Red Room it was hard for her to emphasise with others on an emotional level. She was perfectly capable, indeed excelled, at wearing false emotions like a layer clothing, yes, but this rage. This wasn’t feigned. This wasn’t a cloak. And then Clint understood.

It was Tony’s family who had put him through this. Who had forced him to have this fear and this broken mentality. For Natasha, everything she had been put through had been on the call of someone else, and in the name of training. She had been broken and remade into a new individual, but it hadn’t been by her family. Family was something that was so treasured and cherished in Natasha’s view. The only real relationships she had had before the Avengers had been with Clint and Coulson. Then these other friendships had wormed their way in, and her family expanded. To know that a family member, a Father indeed, had so abused the trust… it cut her deeply. Even worse knowing that Tony still craved the love and approval of his father, something he was never going to have due to the man being dead. 

Clint closed his own eyes, a rock the weight of the Hulk settling deep within his stomach. “How can we help him? How can we fix this?” People analysis wasn’t his strong point the way it was Tasha’s, and knowing the magnitude of how much the man in his lap needed his help. Child abuse was one thing. Plenty of people in the world went through it. It was terrible and the people who initiated it deserved to be dismembered into multiple pieces, but because so many people went through it there was plenty of documented evidence that suggested how to help them. Something like this? Where the person continued the abuse on themselves? It was different. It was sort of similar to a victim going out and finding someone else to abuse them… That happened. Maybe they could research that and see what coping strategies there were for that? But there were other variables. Tasha had mentioned he needed this to help him sleep?

“JARVIS?” he called out quietly.

“Yes, Agent Barton?” Came the crisp English accent at a similarly low volume. 

“You mentioned to Tasha that Tony needed this to help him sleep. Explain, please.” 

Clint could almost hear the gears whirring as JARVIS considered his request. And wasn’t that a scary thought. An AI that could make decisions. 

“I’m afraid you will need to ask Sir for an answer to your question.” 

Clint scowled, unsurprised by the answer, but still annoyed. He was pleased that JARVIS did not readily betray personal information about his creator to anyone who asked, but still. He wanted to know! He was trying to _help_ Tony. Still, aggravating the occasionally sharp-tongued AI was not the best way to go about this. “Thank you,” he replied and nodded at the ensuing ‘you’re welcome, Agent Barton’. He returned his glance to Natasha, his gaze speculative. “Any ideas, Tash?” To his vague frustration, the red-haired agent shook her head. 

“Not until we’ve spoken to Tony,” 

That probably was a valid point. “JARVIS, any ideas on how long Tony is likely to sleep for after this? How long had he been awake for, anyway? 

“Prior to this incident, Sir had been awake for approaching ninety two hours. He is likely to stay asleep for anywhere ranging between six and ten hours. I should add that Sir made several attempts to sleep in the interim period, but was unable to.”

Clint bit back the curse that longed to bubble up past his clenched jaw. Ninety two hours? “Fuck…” he whispered to himself. That explained the cadaverous circles around the man’s eyes. And the fact that his clothes were sitting slightly loosely. Clint himself was familiar with how sometimes after a body passed a certain stage of exhaustion, all nutrition just made you nauseous. Over the past year that he’d lived in the Tower Clint had of course taken note of how Tony’s weight tended to yo-yo, and had always brought food down to the workshop when the engineer was looking particularly thin. Yet he’d clearly dropped the ball this time. The recent spate of missions had kept him busy. Though that really oughtn’t to have been an excuse.

“Tash, I’m going to take a nap then, that way if Tony needs to stay up tonight I’ll be well rested and can keep him company.” Natasha nodded in agreement.

“I’ll stay in case there’s any further problems, will bring you both some food when Tony starts to stir.”

Clint smiled in gratitude; he knew that Tash was really staying to appease his paranoid nature. He just slept better when there was someone he trusted watching his back, and this way if there was an emergency and Tony had another panic attack, help was readily available. For now? Sleep. Everything else would have to wait until Tony was awake. Clint carefully adjusted his legs so that he could lie down without disturbing the genius, before lying his torso down next to the man. With a sniper’s training, he closed his eyes and was asleep almost instaneously, well accustomed to having to snatch rest in small increments and whenever it was possible. Natasha alone remained seated, her eyes roving over the slumbering pair, guarding their sleep like the guardian angel she absolutely wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 7/9/13: added a paragraph which I had written in my notebook and completely forgot to type up.
> 
> Edited 25/6/14: altered the Russian due to the very, very kind corrections of гость - many, many thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. You guys officially owe me! *laughs* I’ve been walking around for 74 minutes to find this bloody internet café. With a broken shoulder, sprained ankle, and two cracked ribs! (Yes, I’m the person who manages to fall down the stairs on my holiday when I’m carrying my suitcase up them. Typical! Apparently it’s not a good thing to have a suitcase fall on you. Who’d have thought it?) Anyway. Hope you enjoy this chapter, I’m sorry not much happened – mainly introspective stuff – I have to say I really enjoyed writing from Natasha’s point of view though. Decided to write her in a very coldly analytical light. Do you think it worked? Steve was tough, though! I re-wrote that scene so many times, and am still not happy with his ‘voice’, so apologies for that. Will try to get the next chapter up soon-ish. No promises though, sorry.

Several hours passed slowly by as Natasha faced a rare moment of peaceful contemplation over the pair of slumbering men. She was subconsciously aware as time ticked through to early evening, but did not attempt to consciously track it. Things had changed so much over the past year. Prior to the mission involving Loki, she had cared about precisely two people; Clint Barton and Phil Coulson. When Fury had led them to believe that Phil was dead… it seemed like the little emotion which both her fellow Agents had practically given her lessons in accessing shrivelled up and died. Her heart had felt like she had performed one of her more…vigorous ‘questioning’ sessions on it. A dually confusing sensation as she was still uncertain how a lump of muscle could ‘feel’ anything at all, yet the pain had certainly seemed to originate from that area of her body. She was used to cataloguing what area of her body pain or injury lay, after all. By being aware of where the injury was located, it enabled her to focus on the group of surrounding muscles to give them extra adrenaline which allowed her to power through most injuries. 

After the group. No. The team as they could be called by then. Had reconvened for a meal in the shawarma restaurant in a state of mutual exhaustion, she had found herself almost unable to leave Clint’s side, so… so… _afraid_ that he would disappear if she was not there to protect him. How was it possible that she, the Black Widow, bore fear? Particularly in regards to protecting someone so capable as Clint. It hadn’t seemed likely, let alone possible prior to that day. Yet there it was, that confounding emotion wrapping itself around her spine, cutting through to her stomach and even her lungs had appeared to bear traces of dread. As the meal progressed, and none of the drained super-and-not-so-super heroes had spontaneously dropped dead of a heart attack (that was her largest concern for Stark, at any rate), the fear had lessened somewhat. Dulling to just a roar at the back of her mind. Several days later, when Fury’s…deceptions had been brought to light, she had stolen her way into his bedroom and sat there, looking through some folders on his desk, waiting for him to arrive. Judging from the flicker of fast-concealed emotion that had passed over his expression, he hadn’t believed that was possible. “Lie to me like that again, and you will not see me. I will take down your company, I will discover all that you hold dear and annihilate it. You will have no proof it is me. Eventually, when your turn comes… I repeat, you will not see me.” She had stated, her eyes holding his gaze hostage with an intensity normally used in reference to the bird her partner was named for. Promise given, she had risen to her feet, carelessly dropping the file to the ground, and stalked past the silenced master spy. 

She had been very careful in ensuring that her promise, threat if you prefer, only involved being lied to in that manner. She was familiar with the dangerous nature of their lives, and, despite her previous reaction to Phil’s death, was prepared for her friends to die. She didn’t know how well she would survive if they were eliminated, but she knew it was a risk. Much as a part of her longed to squirrel them away somewhere safe, she knew that by caging a bird, you did not make it sing. They were both adrenaline junkies and enjoyed their line of work. A cage would not suit either well. 

Of course, for several weeks post that meeting she had had tails following her. Foolish, young Agents who could not hope to match her skill. At one point, the Agent tailing her had been so bad that she had thought that Fury was using her as a training exercise, and had dropped down on the startled Agent to give them some hints. Eventually, when she grew bored with the pathetic attempts at intimidation, she had cornered one and asked her to pass the message onto Nick that she grew bored with these attempts at surveillance. She had not turned her back on America, or even SHIELD, just had lost the small amounts of trust she had had in him personally. After that, the surveillance had dropped off, although she did occasionally spot people covertly watching her. Amateurs. Whether it was due to her words, or Fury had just realised the pointlessness of trying to keep tabs on her, she neither knew nor cared. Instead her focus revolved around restoring Clint to a state of mental soundness, and Phil to a state of physical health. Both were lengthy tasks that she was more than happy to complete. After all, they were both alive for her to require fixing. 

When Natasha emerged from her care of Phil and Clint, she was surprised to realise that all of a sudden she had a team. Stark had invited all of them to live in the newly-named Avengers Tower; she had accepted mainly as a way of getting Barton and Coulson away from Fury. When they had entered the Tower, they had been a fractured group, brought together by necessity and hardened by battle. In the interim weeks they seemed to have bonded over late-night conversations and movie nights, cups of tea and hot chocolate. Bonded over moaning over Tony’s three-day stints in his workshop. Over Bruce’s habits of leaving samples in the fridge on the common floor that no one else _quite_ recognised or dared touch. Over Thor’s habits of randomly shouting out at the television. Over Steve’s leaving eraser scrubbings tucked into corners of the sofa that always managed to make their way up your trousers and itched terribly. Over Clint’s inability to wash up his own dishes (he claimed it was a condition – he was allergic to dish soap and water combined). Over Natasha leaving her shoes in the middle of the floor; shoes that would occasionally conceal lethally sharp daggers, or needles, or any manner of other weapons. At least no one complained that they were going to ‘break their neck’ falling over them – they seemed more concerned about cutting through some major artery or something. Peons. They evolved from Rogers, Banner and Stark to Steve, Bruce and Tony. Thor? He was always just Thor. Not that she normally referred to them aloud as anything other than their sir names. She enjoyed watching the faces they pulled (Stark) when referred to as such. Indeed, sometimes she would still call Steve ‘Captain America’ just to watch him struggle to decide whether he should correct a ‘dame’, or explain (yet again) that she was welcome to call him Steve. So far he had smiled slightly uncomfortably two hundred and four times, and corrected her one hundred and sixty seven. His manners were really uncommonly good for this day and age; he ought to give Stark lessons. She had the feeling though that he knew she was needling him. He was after all highly observant and intelligent. 

Then, in evidence of even further change, she watched as the relationship between Tony and Clint began to change. She spotted it first in Clint – she knew him so well that she knew what he was feeling and why quite often before he did. The lingering glances, and poor attempts to cover them up. The naked _longing_ he occasionally held in his eyes. The way he’d jump at any chance to go and visit Tony in his workshop – he’d never go without a reason, no, never anything so presumptuous. Rogers did that enough; he enjoyed going to sit happily in a corner of Stark’s workshop for hours and just draw. They both seemed to enjoy the company, much to Natasha’s surprise – the Stark pre-Avengers certainly would have kicked him out. But if Tony hadn’t surfaced from the pit for some time, Clint would be the first to volunteer to bring him food, or drag him upstairs to the land of the living as opposed to machines. 

For some time Natasha’s opinions of Tony turned to dislike. Almost hatred. She could never read any sign that he reciprocated Clint’s emotions. It was irrational for her to dislike him purely because of that, but for Clint to grow and demonstrate affection for someone, and then have them view him only as a friend at best, or a quick lay at worst… the thought clouded her judgement. Until, one day, something just…clicked. She still was unsure what gave Tony away, but suddenly the complexity of masks that the man wore became obvious. Every gesture, every facial movement was as meticulously planned out as her own. Did… Did Tony return her best friend’s emotions? It was entirely possible. Probable, even. He certainly acted differently with Clint than he did anyone else, and there were other little tells, too. Too slight for Natasha to directly put her finger on, but there were just hints that her subconscious picked up on… if this were a mark of hers, her subconscious would have instructed her to use flirtation as one of her arsenal. 

Back in the present day, a hint of a smirk graced the female assassin’s lips as she silently observed her friends. The smugness that she’d felt when she realised that there was a possible happy ending on the horizon of the billionaire and the archer. Of course, she wouldn’t tell either of them directly. Where was the fun in that? A spider enjoyed weaving its’ web, after all. Yet… if she gave the odd little nudge, particularly after this… episode, what harm would it do?

A slight frown curled the corner of the pensive woman’s eyebrow. This ‘episode’, a good word to call it, was concerning for more than the obvious reasons. Stark and his issues was one major light of concern, of course, yet a secondary tendril of disquiet was present for Clint too. This was not the first time that Stark had been… hm… not well, either in body or spirit, since Clint had realised his attraction, but it had been by far the worst. Stark had an annoying habit of always being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was the only one present when a young child had been ended by a falling rock – that had had some severe emotional consequences. He had just happened to be present when a flailing villain had lashed out, and sent him flying to the ground with sufficient force that he had shattered two ribs, shards of which had punctured his lung. These were just examples, there had been further occasions. The infuriating man did put himself in danger far more than any of others, whether he believed he was expendable, or was just capable of taking more damage than the others, she was unsure. It was probably a combination of the both, and something she was intending to figure out a way to alter. How, she was still uncertain. However he did sometimes seem to just have atrocious luck. All of this led to the man having emotional mines the size of some countries, and frequent injuries. Clint had managed with all those times, although his worry had been evident. Her concern, however, came from the way Clint had acted on this occasion. It was appropriate for a normal relationship or someone with emotional ties for someone to act that way. But not them. Not Agents of SHIELD. Their emotions had to take second –place to just about everything. Clint had acted irrationally, and not performed to the best of his considerable abilities. He had been lucky on this occasion, but he might not be next. If this …affection for Stark was going to continue, he was going to need learn how to act rationally despite what he was feeling. 

A nasty curling feeling began to twist through the assassin’s stomach. If she were anyone else she’d have classified it as unease. Was it her right to think like this? Clint was his own man, and his duties as an Avenger were beginning to outnumber his duties as an Agent. Yet… still, they were going to deal with civilians, innocents, should Clint be ranking their lives above that of Tony’s? Phil. She’d take this to Phil. He’d know what to do – he had experience after all of having a partner in the field. Plus he understood Clint. For Natasha it was easy to just switch off her emotions; she still felt them, of course she did, but she could think rationally through them. Phil would know the right things to say to Clint without patronising him and making him angry. With a pleased nod to herself, Natasha’s brow smoothed out again once more as she settled back into a more relaxed pose. Decision made. 

The relaxed state lasted approximately fourteen minutes before the tread of footsteps alerted her to someone else’s approach. Rogers was the most likely; Thor’s footsteps were so loud it felt like nearby furniture ought to begin vibrating, and Banner tended to be quieter, much more effasive. A moment later, her suspicions were proven correct as the man himself entered, clad in grey tracksuit bottoms and a clean white t-shirt that indicated the man was planning on going to the gym after their conversation. “Rogers,” she greeted with an inclining of her head, just daring him to comment on the unusual scene spread out before him. 

“Natasha,” he returned the greeting, his volume at an acceptable level of speaking so as not to disturb the sleepers. His face, surprisingly, (disappointingly? She did enjoy seeing the man flat-footed. Call it sadistic pleasure), didn’t betray any confusion as the unusualness of the tableau; JARVIS must have informed him about what to expect. Normally Clint would have woken the moment Rogers stepped out of the elevator that brought him to this floor, but he always did relax further into sleep when either she or Phil were present. She did the same. “Is it possible if I could speak with you a moment? Preferably where we won’t disturb these two.” 

Natasha glanced at the pair, weighing up her options. She didn’t want to disturb the pair, yet refused to leave Clint when she had told him she would guard his sleep. Yet Rogers deserved to be updated of the situation; he was the team leader so needed to know about his team. She would, of course, be circumspect about any deeply personal information she gave him; Tony deserved whatever privacy he wanted, and if he wanted to tell Steve the rationale for his behaviour? That was his choice. Decision once again made, she indicated with one finger for Steve to wait for a moment before gently tapping Clint twice on the right shoulder. A signal the pair of them used to indicate that danger wasn’t immediately present. At the first moment of contact, Clint’s eyes opened, although a haze of sleep did appear to blanket them for a second or two before he fully awoke. The moment caused Natasha’s lips to twitch upwards in a fond smile; he really was healing if he allowed himself such moments of unguardedness. 

The freshly woken man’s gaze roved between Natasha and Steve, a hint of a question in them as he groaned quietly, “All alright, Tash? Was sleepin’…” Natasha’s smile grew at his complaints. How a grown man could sound so like a five year old really was beyond her comprehension. Particularly a grown man who was as lethal as Clint. 

“It’s been quiet; I’m just going to talk with Steve for a moment. Stark appears to have been resting peacefully the entire time. You’ve been asleep for approximately five hours.” Clint nodded in response as he stretched upwards, his spine letting out a series of several jaw tingling pops. Although he remained careful not to move his legs that were currently serving as a pillow for the clearly exhausted billionaire. 

“Good ‘nuff reason, I guess. You go ‘n play with the Captain. Be nice.” Came the reply, the sentence muffled around the wide yawn the man emitted that he didn’t bother to try to repress or conceal. Natasha snorted, used to such behaviour from the juvenile archer. She gracefully uncurled herself from where she had been sitting peacefully faintly amused by the tendril of thought that if she had been someone else she most likely would have stiffened up from remaining in the same position for so many hours. Sometimes the years she spent training really did have benefits. She paced her way to the door, nodding in acknowledgement as Steve gestured for her to go first and preceded him through the door. She moved a few steps further down the corridor until she knew she was close enough to Tony’s room that if Clint called for assistance she’d be there in seconds, yet the low murmur of voices would not disturb the dead to the world man. 

Steve followed her, maintaining the silence he’d held as he watched Natasha wake her fellow spy, and update him of her movements. He hadn’t wanted to disturb Clint, but assumed that Natasha must have assured him she would remain there while he was sleeping. That sort of trust needed to remain unshakable for a partnership as close as Natasha and Clint’s to function. When they reached what he estimated to be a safe distance away, he asked without preamble, “What happened earlier, Natasha? I heard your brief explanation earlier about testing something for Clint, and then nothing else. I wanted to discuss with you some new team training regimens when JARVIS told me that you were all together in Tony’s room, and that he wasn’t working? Then you all missed dinner, and Clint never misses dinner, and I just got… concerned I guess? Is all alright?”

Natasha remained silent for a moment, gauging the man’s level of concern. Low-Medium at best. He would not need a detailed explanation at this moment in time, thankfully. As she turned over Steve’s words in her head, she gave herself a mental kicking. JARVIS had said Tony ‘was not working,’ the same words he’d given her earlier. He had been trying to give them a hint. He didn’t mean that Stark wasn’t working in the workshop; he meant that wasn’t working as in functioning. Foolish woman! 

“I will explain more later,” she began, best to let the man know that now. “Basically, Clint needed Tony for something, and found that he had shut himself up in the box currently installed in Stark’s bedroom. I suspect that this was not the first time that Stark has enclosed himself in such a manner. I was testing JARVIS to see if he had possibly been hacked, hence my contacting you. Stark proceeded to have some form of flashback or mental breakdown and is currently sleeping it off. He appeared exhausted when he came around, and unable to keep himself awake so we did not question him at that point.” There, that gave a rough summary of events without delving too deeply into the emotional reasons behind the actions. Now, to field the barrage of questions that Steve was about to throw at her.

Steve had listened in silence to Natasha’s explanation, only the tightening of his jaw betraying the concern he felt for his teammate. He did not miss the fact that Natasha avoided giving him any of the reasons behind what had happened, and understood her reluctance. As team leader, he needed to know of weaknesses within his team, and claustrophobia could be one of Tony’s, though that wouldn’t explain how he managed the suit. Anyway, he needed to know their potential weaknesses, but if Tony had maybe confided in Natasha for the reasons behind them? It could be catastrophic for Natasha to then betray that trust and pass on the information to Steve. He knew that. Rationally. Much as he wanted to fire question after question at the woman, he knew he couldn’t. Instead, he nodded sharply – tension making the muscles in his neck ache, “Will he be alright?” Was Natasha going to be able to help him, he was asking there. “and is there anything I can do?” Natasha’s pleased, and slightly surprised, smile warmed something inside him. She hadn’t expected him be so sensitive to the situation, and had rewarded him by allowing him to read some genuine emotion from her.

“Don’t worry, Steve, he will be.” There. Further ‘reward’ by calling him by his first name, he _knew_ she called him Rogers or Captain America to get his goat! “As for helping? At the moment please don’t mention this to him. He is going to be thoroughly embarrassed, and that could cause him to withdraw from us all. I’m hoping to avoid this by not allowing him to escape when he does wake up, but the less people who know, the better. Just be careful to not act any differently around him.” 

Steve nodded in acquiescence, understanding her rationale. As his Ma used to advise him, sometimes it were best to let things be and sort themselves out. He knew that Tony had plenty of time to confide in him – they often sat in the workshop together, sometimes in comfortable quiet, sometimes they’d chat to each other – mostly Tony helping to bring Steve up to date on changes that had occurred since his era. Steve would frequently watch films or documentaries whilst Tony worked. Despite their initial rocky start, they had become friends, bonding over Tony’s well-hidden helpful nature. After the battle for New York had finished, Steve had requested, and been granted, permission for a road trip. He had taken off for three weeks, familiarising himself with the new United States. It had been an eye opening, and somewhat frightening, trip. He had returned; ready to take up the mantle of Captain America once more, to a city that was still in a state of disrepair, but was mending. Iron Man and Thor had been seen helping frequently helping with repair works, something that caused a twinge of shame within Steve for not doing the same. Stark Tower, was similarly in the process of being renovated with upgrades making suitable for a team of superheroes to live. Steve had initially returned to his SHIELD-given quarters, but a note had been there inviting him to stay at ‘The Avengers Tower’ (previously known as Stark Tower, although the repairs were not yet complete, Steve could give whatever input he so desired and Tony would see it implemented. On looking around his lonely apartment, Steve hadn’t struggled to make a decision. On arrival, he had almost instantaneously been presented with a dossier by Tony who had beaten a swift retreat immediately on giving it after mumbling something about him being sorry it wasn’t complete yet, before Steve could even offer up a greeting. 

The folder had been… formidable. It had contained information on just about everything a genius could think of, from how to work on the television, with diagrams, to the basic mechanics of how a computer worked and how to use it. Tony had not only foreseen Steve needing to find out how to make things work, but had understood that Steve found these things… frightening. By explaining the basic mechanics the man had removed a great deal of the unknown, and therefore fear, that Steve had been experiencing about all these new gadgets. Tony had compiled a list of all major historical events that had happened while Steve had been asleep, with references to books or ‘internet sites’ that Steve could find useful. There were lists of people he had known, and brief mentions of what had happened to them and whatever family they might’ve had. Not so much information as to be intrusive, but enough to allow Steve to track these people down if he so wished. There was even a section on ‘PC’ (a term that swiftly grew to annoy Steve) that informed him about social changes such as the status changes of coloured people and women. That was just the information Steve saw on his first glance through, the whole monstrosity was over four thousand pages long. It was impossible to imagine the hours, days, of time that it must have taken Tony to compile this. Despite everything else he was doing, he had managed it. The man had even done things like set up an ‘email’ account and ‘online banking’ with explanations of what he had done and how Steve could alter it if he so chose. Steve’s sense of gratitude was overwhelming, and he swiftly realised that this was Tony’s way of apologising for their harsh words to each other. 

While he was thinking of the next steps they could take as a team, Natasha looked to the ceiling, a habit none of them had been able to shake, “JARVIS. I have a request for you.” 

“How may I be of service, Agent Romanoff?” came the crisp reply in that wonderfully English accent. 

“When Stark awakes, would you mind locking his bedroom door? Even if he orders you to let him out. I do not think that this will be sufficient to send him back into a flashback as the adrenaline will have exited his system by now. This is for his benefit.” As she spoke, Steve took a moment to marvel at the future, and Tony’s genius in general, the fact that he had created a computer so intelligent that you had to reason with it was just… phenomenal. “When he does awake, he is most likely to be angry and embarrassed with Clint and I, and is likely to try to escape. If he does it is unlikely that he will allow us to corner him to talk through this with him. I understand there are reasons behind him doing this, and wish to try to help him. I am certain that this is best method of doing so.” 

JARVIS remained silent for a second, probably running through the multiple scenarios that could occur if this action were performed, before replying “Agreed, Agent Romanoff, although if Sir uses any of his override commands then I must comply with his wishes.” 

Natasha nodded in understanding, “Thank you, JARVIS. I appreciate your co-operation.” Steve was certain that he wasn’t the only one who felt the ‘hum’ of approval from JARVIS. In fact, it felt almost like they were being co-conspirators, all with the same aim. Keep Tony safe.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m discovering that writing from Tony’s POV is another of my weaknesses. As is dialogue when I’m not 100% sure of the characterisation. Bah. Sorry, not very pleased with quite a large chunk of this chapter, apologies folks.

Steve and Natasha conversed quietly together in the hall for a further half an hour, making plans for the future about how they could deal with the potential fall-out from this episode. Just as Steve’s watch ticked over to read 20:43, Clint’s voice called out lowly from Tony’s bedroom. “Tash, come on back? We might need to wake him up.”

Natasha nodded to Rogers and swiftly returned to Tony’s room. Her plan was to ascertain his emotional state first before stepping into the small kitchenette just down the hall and find some food in there for the trio. Steve had offered to bring up some of the leftovers from the meal the others had shared earlier, but Natasha always preferred to see food she ate prepared herself. She was working on it. But it was a tick that refused to go away, despite her trust in her teammates. She _could_ eat food that she hadn’t seen prepared, had done so many a time before on missions and when she went out to restaurants to eat, but she always enjoyed the meal more if she watch it being made, or make it herself. Steve nodded in return and took his leave, returning to the elevator that had brought him here. He knew it was best if he weren’t here when Tony awoke, even if he desperately wanted to make sure that one of his closest friends was alright. JARVIS had said that he would keep Steve updated which would help with the worry. Instead of remaining there, he would make his way to the gym and try to lose some of his concern on the punching bags there. That seemed like a much better solution than sitting around with nothing to do except worry. 

As Natasha re-entered the bedroom, she automatically analysed the scene set out in front of her. It hadn’t changed much since she was last in there; Clint was now leaning the headboard, his hand resting on Tony’s shoulder while his thumb rubbed soothing circles on it. Tony had evidently moved slightly – his head was now twisted so that it was facing the opposite direction, towards the door, instead of being nestled against Clint’s stomach. His eyes were twitching around beneath his still-closed eyelids causing them to crinkle somewhat towards the corners, and his mouth was locked into a grimace. All factors that indicated his sleep had turned decidedly less than pleasant. “What do you think?” Clint asked, continuing to keep his tone quiet. “See if he’ll move onto something nicer? Or wake him up.” 

Natasha contemplated the scene for a moment, running through the various scenarios in her head before replying, “Wake him. Then we can get some food in him, he ought to still be tired enough to get a full night’s sleep after.” Clint nodded, his face twisted in thought as he decided if he agreed with her, weighing up the desperate need for sleep against whether this would count as restful or not. The slight whining sound that emitted from Tony decided it for him. It couldn’t even be called a whine; it was so quiet, was more of a harsh breath with a tiny bit of sound riding on top. Waking up time it was. 

“If he socks me one, I’m blaming you, just so you’re aware.” 

Natasha grinned, a hint of mirth shining in her eyes momentarily. “If you can’t dodge, then you’re not the Agent I thought you were.” Was her swift rejoinder.

“I think my face would be softer than the wall….” Was Clint’s distracted reply, causing Natasha to snort. How best to wake Tony, hm? Everyone responded to different stimuli differently… Still, touch and voice had worked best before. Maybe that would bring him peacefully out of this dream, hopefully without either of them getting hurt. “Hey, Tony? Come on Sleeping Beauty. Time to wake up now, Princess. You’re really trying to earn all the nicknames tonight, hey? Wakey, wakey…” Clint called, his tone set to a louder tone than previously, yet still sounding as gentle as he physically knew how. The hand that had previously been rubbing the billionaire’s shoulder shifted slightly so that it was wrapped around the joint, and began to shake it lightly. The man in question’s mouth tightened further as the sound of the words began to penetrate into his dreamscape, until his eyes flew open in a motion so sudden he almost startled Clint. “Woah, hey there, Tones. Take it easy. You’re fine, safe in your bedroom, in the biggest fucking Tower I’ve ever lived in. I’m here, Tasha’s here. All good and safe. You got me? All that kind of stuff.”

As Clint continued speaking, rambling really, Tony’s head jerked around so it was facing the archer, and his eyes focused on the other man’s face. His eyes were wide and coloured by what could only be fear, but as the words began to set into his brain the fear drifted away to be replaced by confusion. What in hells name had happened? He’d…They’d… What? As the sleepiness fell away from his brain it was only to be replaced by a still heavy blanket of exhaustion. Still. He was Tony Stark. He was used to thinking through exhaustion. He’d been going through one of his insomniac stages, that tallied with the sense of exhaustion that was still clinging to his bones. Then… yesterday? They’d been called to Assemble against one of those reject science experiments that seemed to crop every now and again. Some idiot had decided to experiment with slugs and growing them to different sizes… It hadn’t been pretty. He’d been struggling with tiredness then, and hadn’t been fighting at his best, making several just plain stupid mistakes. Yes. That had been yesterday. Steve had had a conversation with him after about it, his lip doing that whole curling thing he did when he was disappointed. Or angry. Or pretty much any negative emotion. That had been his final strike, hadn’t it? It had been the fifth expression of annoyance, so he had made sure he had a clear afternoon and decided to do one of his ‘treatments’…But then…. Normally when he woke from the state the box put him into he’d crawl out and go straight to sleep, sometimes not even making it to his bed. But he couldn’t recall waking up, let alone climbing out…

It was obvious to Clint when Tony realised what had happened. The archer had been zeroed in on the billionaire’s face so as to track every facial twitch of the man still lying in his lap. He’d remained quiet, his thumb rubbing the half-awake engineer’s shoulder once more, and allowed Tony to chunter around in his thoughts, obviously back-tracking to work out how he had got here. When Tony realised what had happened his face whitened and his whole frame slipped from relaxed to iron-tautness so rapidly that Clint winced in sympathy. 

Tony sat bolt upright, the movement so fast that his back muscles twanged, just to remind him that he wasn’t twenty any longer. The sudden elevation made his head swim slightly, partially no doubt due to the cloying exhaustion still dogging his heels, and partially due to the slight panic he was doing his best to conceal. The change of position alerted him to the fact that Natasha was present as well, standing in between him and the door. Great. Someone else who had seen him in that state. “That…. That wasn’t what you thought. It was just a thing. You know, everyone has things, right? Even sneaking spies have to have things. Probably more than other, normal people, with all the nasty stuff they have to do. You done nasty stuff, Barton? Bet you have your own things.” As he spoke, babbled really, he threw himself off his bed and away from the warming arms that had been about to encircle him, whether to restrain or embrace he wasn’t sure. He backed away slowly from the pair of assassins, mouth on complete autopilot as he tried to think how to get out. 

“Why do I only have one door into my room, JARVIS. Note. Build a second exit. That’s an order. In fact. Why the fuck are you in my room? My room. Serious security, no, privacy breach happening here. Right now. J, why aren’t you fixing this? Do something about it. Why are you still here, staring at me? Not saying anything. I know I fucked up, alright? You shouldn’t have seen that. It shouldn’t have been seen.” How could he get out of here, and shut his mouth up? He just needed five seconds without being under the scrutiny of the spy-duo’s judgemental eyes. Then he could get his game-face on, and pull himself together. Just five seconds! Then he could think of some way to convince them that he _didn’t_ need kicking off the Team. His eyes flickered around the room, unable to meet either of the other’s eyes or settle still on anything as a light trembling took over his hands. Five seconds, that’s all he needed. Less. He could make do with less. Two seconds. Two seconds without being looked at it. Why weren’t they saying anything?! “Say something, damn you!” …That wasn’t a request. That was an order, damnit! Why the fuck did they have to have seen him like that? Why wouldn’t they say anything? Was this a hallucination, maybe? One that he’d conjured up while he was still in his box that cut off all sound. 

Clint didn’t move as the man pulled himself from his arms and began Tony-ing at the pair of them. Seriously, the man could talk so much he deserved to have his name turned into a verb. He waited with patience not usually attributed to him for Tony to get rid of his initial thoughts and hopeful panic, pleased that the man hadn’t automatically gone on the offence and used his sharp tongue combined with razor wit to try to drive them off. That’s what they had been expecting, Tony to start attacking them verbally and to try to storm out. The hint of pleading in that last sentence proved to him that waiting the billionaire out was the wrong tactic. Tony wasn’t calming himself down; his mind wasn’t slipping back to rationality, he was instead just winding himself up further. “Hey, Tony. It’s alright,” he spoke up, his tone once again soothing. “It was a good thing that I found you; I hate to think of you going through that alone. I, we, don’t think you’re weak or anything because of it, so you can stop yourself from thinking that. You’re right; I’ve had flash-backs and panic attacks along with the best of them. If you blind-fold me, or if I’m in a place that’s completely pitch black, I turn into a shivering wreck. Nearly pissed myself one time when my light blew in my quarters on the helicarrier.” This was so difficult! If they could understand precisely what motivation had driven Tony to do this on this occasion, then he’d have an idea of what to say. As it was… he was just drifting, hoping to keep the billionaire calm. Fucking Howard. To screw someone up so much that they felt they had to continue the cycle and punish themselves…

As he spoke, he slowly pushed himself off the bed and made his way over to the billionaire slowly, one hand stretched out with the palm upturned in the universal gesture of peace. “You don’t need to run; there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed off.” At least Tony was listening to him, the billionaire’s gaze that had been roving around the room like a trapped animal was currently fixated on him, the pair staring straight into each other’s eyes. Within a few moments they were within touching distance of each other, and Clint slowly leant forward with his arm still outstretched and his gaze locked onto Tony. If the man showed any hint that he didn’t want the contact, if he even twitched, Clint was ready to pull back, but no such sign made itself visible.

Tension crackled within the air as Clint’s palm reached Tony’s shoulder, and continued to slide around until he was holding the man in a loose embrace. “This alright, Tones?” He asked, feeling how the engineer’s shoulders were practically vibrating from the tension held within them. In response, Tony lowered his head so it was once again resting on Clint’s shoulder in a parody of his earlier actions. He kept his hands firmly by his side, clenched into fists despite the slight twinge of pain it caused from the cut he had opened up whilst in the box. Could it be this simple? No. They still didn’t know why he had done it; they didn’t know how pathetic he was. Didn’t know how badly he _deserved_ this. But just for the moment, this was nice. It was something he’d dreamed of, well, sort of. He’d dreamed of their being less clothes, and more skin contact, and, you know, him reciprocating the embrace rather than just standing there. But, still…it was…nice. Clint’s body was close enough that he could feel heat coming off it, warming up the chill that was coating his own skin, embedded deeply within his bones. It felt so good just to… let himself lean on someone for a moment. Pretend that it was all going to be alright. He was just so fucking tired… 

“Alright, come on Tin-Man. We’re going to make our way back and sit on the bed; Tasha’s going to go and get some food. You got anything in your fridge that you feel like eating?” At Tony’s headshake, Clint mock-scowled, despite the man not being able to see it. “Well you need to eat something even if it’s just something small.” His gaze flicked over to Tasha, a request in them, to which she nodded and exited the room to make her way to the small kitchenette. 

As she left, Clint twisted himself around, wrapping his other arm around the other man’s waist in a moment of familiarity that had him holding his breath in case of reaction. “All righty then, let’s get back to bed. Unless there’s somewhere better for sitting around up here?” Tony remained quiet as he took a second to process the question, before nodding. A part of him felt like he ought to be annoyed at how micro-managed he was being, but really so much of his life was managed by Pepper in some respects it was comforting being given orders. A quiet snort of amusement wrung itself out of Clint before he could stop it. “Never would’ve thought that you’d pass up getting into bed with someone, Stark.” The words caused Tony to smile, a small one, but there it was. How could Clint treat him so normally? This just didn’t compute with his knowledge of how people usually acted. 

“Sitting room, just down the corridor. Could go there?” Fuck. Was that his voice? It sounded just so…different from normal. Tired. Defeated. Come on, Stark! Pull yourself together! _Stark men are made of iron, boy. Weakness isn’t allowed. Not for us. The world will eat you alive if you allow people to think you’re week. Don’t bring shame to the family name._ Remember those lessons, Stark? Remember them! 

“Fancy going there?”

Tony nodded in response, the idea of getting away from the room was just appealing in a way that escaping his bedroom really shouldn’t have been. The pair of them exited the bedroom, with Clint’s arm still wrapped around Tony’s waist in support. Tony knew he should have shrugged it off; he could walk just fine, damnit! He wasn’t some trembling petal who was going to collapse without any support. But… the warmth was nice. The contact just made him feel, well, secure. 

As they passed the small (well, Stark Tower type-of-small) kitchen, Clint called out to Natasha who looked like she was putting some sandwiches together, “We’re just going through to the sitting room, Tash.” His partner made a slight grunting noise of acknowledgement, a sound that would have come out as being ridiculous from just about anyone else, but sounded completely normal from the Russian woman. They soon came upon the living room, a warm looking room with art-work decorating the walls that Clint just knew had been chosen by Pepper. The styles just had her name all over them. All aside from one picture that was placed right by the window, in prime viewing place. That one drew a grin from Clint. It was a sketch of all of them dressed in each other’s uniforms. Clint thought he looked particularly dashing in Thor’s armour with Mjolnir clasped in one hand, whereas putting Natasha in the IronMan (Woman?) armour was a stroke of genius. It was beyond given that if the archer were to go and peer closer that he’d see either an ‘SR’ with that weird little star thing that looked like Kirby that Steve always put by his initials, or the full signature itself adorning the sketch somewhere. There was an electric (well, it ran off something. Who knew how Tony could have modified it) fire-place as well as a television screen that was bigger than the table he ate off back in his old SHIELD apartment. The TV had two of the plushest (red, of course) sofas nestled in front of it at angles with eachother, and, surprisingly enough, a bookshelf filled with tomes lined one of the walls. Less surprising, however, was what looked like a well-stocked bar plus stools that was almost certainly used far too often. Still. One fight at a time. He and Steve had teamed up together to work on Tony’s alcoholic tendencies, they’d even had some results. If Tony hadn’t had a stressful day, he’d quite frequently come and join them with just a beer in front of a film. A vast improvement than the hard whiskey he stuck to otherwise. JARVIS had reported that his Blood-Alcohol-Content remained steadily lower than in previous years. Bonus! 

“Cosy, I like it. Particularly Steve’s picture. Though I don’t know what Tash will say when she sees that you’re wearing her uniform… Though you probably do know it as well as she does with the amount of times you’ve upgraded it. Anyway… you got a favourite seat?” Tony shook his head, but continued on walking, his feet heading towards the bar rather than the comfy looking sofas. No real surprise there in Clint’s mind, it was a _good_ thing that he and Tasha were here – they could at least stop the man from getting completely smashed as he may well be tempted to do. Anyway, after the day the billionaire had had? He deserved a drink. 

As the billionaire and the archer arrived at the bar (that sounded far too much like the beginnings of a bad joke…), Tony finally felt some of the tension in his shoulders fade. This bar was probably his favourite thing on his whole floor; it was certainly the most frequently used. Tony could navigate his way around this bar no matter how intoxicated he was. The same could not be said for his bedroom. He _still_ opened the wrong drawer first when looking for his socks. Always. Some genius he was. He immediately picked up the decanter baring one of his favourite whiskeys; the Macallan that had been bottled back in 1939. It always vaguely amused him to be drinking something from the same period that Steve had initially been from. It wasn't the most expensive bottle he owned, but some of his rarer drinks truly needed special occasions to crack them open. He poured himself a generous couple of fingers worth and chucked it back, relishing the feeling of good whiskey running down his throat. He then proceeded to pour a second, before glancing at the archer who had dropped his arm from around his waist once they reached the bar. Tony didn’t miss it. Not at all. “Drink?” There. That sounded so much better. 

“Sure, got any commoners beer back there? And Tasha’ll have a vodka. Neat, if you have the good stuff, otherwise mixed in with a bit of cranberry juice.” Clint smirked slightly as Tony carefully drew one eyebrow upwards at the insinuation that he might possess anything less than ‘the good stuff’. “Sorry, sorry… don’t get your big girl’s panties in a twist. Don’t know why I thought you’d have anything less. This time, Tony was the one who bore the smirk as he filled out the requested drinks orders. His movements were sure and graceful as he picked up various bottles and glasses, a far cry from the shaky manoeuvres he’d been displaying in his bedroom just a few minutes ago. Clint couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. Was Tony just replacing his masks again? Or was he feeling more secure away from the box. The infernal man was so difficult to read! 

A moment later, Tony passed the two drinks over, drained his glass once more and poured himself another, this time placing an ice cube in it. He then came out from behind the bar and picked up the other two drinks, balancing all three without any difficulty at all, before making his way over to the sofa. His steps showed not a trace of the fact that he had just downed two decent-sized tumblers of whisky on a completely empty stomach on far too few hours of sleep. Clint didn’t know if this should be concerning or not. Just as the pair reached the sofa, Natasha appeared with a plate of several sandwiches all cut into, yes, cut into triangles. The timing was so perfect that if Clint didn’t know better, he’d have expected a certain amount of orchestration with JARVIS. 

Natasha observed the interactions between the pair, though she focused mainly on Tony, as she made her way across the room towards the sofa with six different sandwiches all cut up into small, bite-sized triangles. All fillings had been advised to her by JARVIS as being things Stark enjoyed. Sometimes having an AI who knew more about your preferences than you did was so useful! Her rationale for doing so had been two-tiered. Partially it would amuse Clint to see her doing something that featured principally at children’s parties. Partially because by having it be so easy to eat then Tony hopefully wouldn’t realise quite how many he had eaten. When one was as exhausted as Stark was looking, then the prospect of eating even just a whole sandwich could be daunting. Eating small morsels could make him believe that he was just picking at it and would hopefully therefore trick him into eating more. 

Frustration began curling its way through her stomach as she watched the pair settle themselves on the sofa (pleasingly, the same sofa! And close enough together that there thighs were brushing against each other). It did look like Tony was trying to pull his masks on again, no doubt thinking he had to ‘pull himself together’ or something of that ilk. Now. She could either go directly onto the topic he was trying so hard to avoid, that would pull said masks down before they could grow too strong again, or she could wait for a little bit, allow a rapport to strike up mixed with banter and get some food in the man’s stomach before he grew too uncomfortable to eat. No. She decided. It was best to strike while the iron was hot and catch Tony while he was still off balance, no matter how much he was trying to disguise it.

Decision made, Natasha made her way over to the other sofa and sat herself down, curling her legs up underneath herself as was her wont, and placed the sandwiches in the middle of the trio. “Eat.” She instructed, before following her own order and picking up one of the little triangles. Her choosing to sit directly opposite the pair had not been by accident. She had had two choices, one, she could have sat on Tony’s other side which would have hemmed him in somewhat, but also would have offered the physical contact he was seeming to respond best to. If only she’d realised how well he responded to physical contact previously – it certainly explained many of his playboy tendencies. However, by choosing to sit opposite them she was almost setting herself up as the ‘enemy’ of the discussion. She could be the one to ask the hard questions, and force them back onto that topic, whereas Clint could offer the support and physical affection to keep him calm. Natasha could handle it if Stark was annoyed, or avoided her for a few days. Hopefully her relaxed body language would prevent that, but even if didn’t….As long as he had support from someone, and Clint could fulfil that role nicely. As soon as she had sat down her partner had nodded ever so slightly, recognising her game plan. There was something faintly amusing about using the cliché’d ‘good cop/bad cop’ game plan. It worked in a truly astonishing number of situations. 

She watched, pleased, as Clint helped himself to two of the sandwiches, and placed one on Tony’s knee so he couldn’t even complain that he didn’t like being handed things, and if Clint left his hand oh so casually resting on Tony’s knee? Well, he hardly seemed to notice it. Almost without thinking, Tony picked up the sandwich in his free hand and began to nibble on it. Good. Time to begin.

“Alright then, Tony. We need to talk about what happened earlier.” 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 16th Sep 2013  
> Changed the bit about the whiskey - sorry folks, somehow managed to leave one of my notes to myself as well as a line I was contemplating including but didn't manage to fit in. Sorry! 
> 
> Also, for anyone interested:  
> http://www.therichest.com/entertainment/the-top-10-most-expensive-whiskies-in-the-world/
> 
> Scary how much people can pay for a bottle of whiskey!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is the final chapter - apologies for the delay in getting it up. I'm ish pleased with it - has some nice moments, yet feels a little rushed, yet no sure how to alter that. Apologies. Thank you so much to everyone who has commented/kudo'd, I seriously appreciate it. 
> 
> Have a few further ideas that I might potentially turn into stories. ^^
> 
> Enjoy!

At Natasha’s words, Tony’s muscles suddenly seemed to turn to stone. He’d… he’d hoped that…. He took a studied breath, followed by another before consciously forcing his muscles to relax. He had known this was going to happen, knew he wasn’t going to escape it. Mechanically, he lifted his hand clenched around his glass and took a measured sip, before replacing the drink with the sandwich Clint had given him. He forced himself to take a bite out of it, ruthlessly not allowing his facial muscles to twitch into the grimace they wanted to display at how like sawdust it tasted. Only after those movements had been completed did he face Natasha once more, a relaxed smirk carefully placed on his lips. “So then, Little Spider. Let’s talk.” 

Natasha’s eyebrow twitched at the nonchalance infecting his tone, a flash of scepticism that she swiftly concealed. She knew he was acting. She knew it. How could she not? She knew. His train of thought was broken by a feeling of warmth suddenly encasing his knee and squeezing it gently. Then a secondary point of warmth began rubbing soothing circles about an inch down from the initial area. Clint. Just the knowledge that he was there gave Tony the strength he needed to lift his head and arch his eyebrow right back at Natasha, staring straight into her eyes challengingly. 

Natasha paused for a moment, either trying to whip the tension in the room to new heights, or to choose her next words. Tony wasn’t sure. It was some calculated action or other, _everything_ Natasha did was thought out and had at least several reasons behind it. That was just the rule. 

“Let’s start by getting the facts straight.” Was that a jab aimed at him? Did she realise how hazy his memories were? Was she trying to subtly let him know that? It was possible. “Barton found you in that…container.” What did that crinkle of her eyes mean? It looked like an expression of distaste before it was smoothed away. “He ascertained that you had not been under some form of attack,” Jesus… had Clint thought that? And he’d stayed with him instead of running off to find the possible attackers? Tony’s drink-less hand snuck itself down, resting itself just next to where Clint’s hand happened to be. If two of his fingers accidently brushed against Clint’s? Well. Hopefully he’d accept that as the gratitude it was intended as. 

Clint’s throat ached from sorrow as he observed Tasha’s interactions with Tony. The guarded way he was zeroing in on her every move, every facial twitch. It was easy to tell how Tony was doing his best to read and work out Tasha’s motives. They’d been fighting together for a year now! That Tony was still this … well, guarded, and distrusting. It made his heart ache in unfamiliar ways. Particularly as all he could really do at the moment was just watch and try to gently soothe Tony. Natasha _needed_ to hack away at Tony’s control. She needed him off-balance so that they could get truthful answers from him rather than the misdirection he was so well known for. There were endless metaphors about how sometimes something needed to be broken before it could be strengthened anew. He knew that. That didn’t make it any easier. 

“When he removed you from the crate, he brought you back to a state of rationality before soothing you to sleep. You appeared to be trapped in some form of elongated flashback, and had already done harm to yourself.” The cool woman nodded towards the billionaire’s fists, ignoring his instinctive attempts to shield them from her view at the same time as cursing herself – they’d completely forgotten to wipe the long-dried of blood from his chin. Those little flecks of blood present leant a disturbing aspect to his slack-faced with exhaustion, grey-tinged skin. They hadn’t administered basic first aid to those cuts on his fists or checked for further injury. It was foolish of them to have been distracted by his mental state so much, still, she couldn’t alter that now. “Am I right so far?” 

Tony, not trusting his voice, offered her an equally cold nod, his eyes remaining locked with hers, terrified that she would interpret it as a sign of weakness if he allowed them to flicker away even for a moment.

It was at that point that the Widow struck. Not, however, in any way that Tony had possibly anticipated. Her eyes softened around the corners, and her whole body leant forward in her attempt to emphasise her point. “Tony… I swear to you, we do not think you’re weak. You are injured, my солнышко ((little sun)), but never weak.” Her voice had turned… he’d hesitate to say ‘softer’ but the words were coming out just so, well, caring? With an undercurrent of pure iron running through them. She truly believed what she was saying, providing it wasn’t acting of course. Which, with Natasha, it could well be. 

Her body moved forward, fell forward, really, in one sinuous movement that one part of Tony automatically envied. He would never be able to coax such poise, such grace from his own comparatively bumbling body. It was just impossible. Now she was kneeling next to him, her head carefully placed below his (why? Why was she giving up her previous position of power?) as she strove to meet his gaze once more. Apparently he’d ducked his head when she had moved. Who knew? 

Two cool fingers placed themselves with infinite amounts of gentleness he’d never expected from the Widow just under his chin enforcing just the slightest amounts of pressure to encourage him to lift his head once more. Her second hand rested itself on the knee that Clint’s hand currently wasn’t residing on and squeezed, not with the gentleness or tenderness that all her other movements were displaying, but with a steely grip just on the right side of not-hurting. 

When she once again had eye contact with him, she spoke again; “What caused you to panic, Tony? Why did you put yourself in that box?” That voice… that voice again. There was no roughness to it, no demands, no harsh requests. It almost sounded like it actually cared…

“I screwed up.” His own voice, in contrast, it came out rough enough to sand glass. That voice of Natasha’s…it compelled honesty. He had no choice but to reply in kind. The words themselves had an unfamiliar feeling to them, as though it weren’t him speaking. They were instead being drawn from an empty vessel. As if the whole experience was happening to someone else. 

“Yesterday. Steve. I… He… I disappointed him. Again. He did that thing, you know, the curling lip thing? That was the fifth time, you see. When he does that five times? Or Fury does his eyebrow thing five times. Or you do your disappointed-not-disappointed face. Or Bruce runs his hands through his hair because of me. Or Thor. Or Clint. Every one. Five times. When it’s done five times I have to shut myself in. I don’t _know_ otherwise. I can’t work it out! Where my limits are, where I’m meant to stop being Tony and be more Iron Man.”

His words… they were getting faster and faster as they nearly tripped each other up in their rush to evacuate his mouth, sinking ship that it was. Where was that wonderful feeling of numbness gone? He just had to explain to them! He wasn’t being irrational, or insane, his reasons made sense. They didn’t need to kick him out of the Team. “I was just so tired. I couldn’t sleep. My mind… my head… it wouldn’t shut up, you know? I constantly think of so many different things at the same time, and sometimes I just need to slow down the neural passageways so I can sleep. Then on the mission yesterday, it was like thinking through sand. Couldn’t focus, was off my game, people. Civilians. They nearly _died_ because of me. I had to be punished! By shutting off all stimuli like that, and the… the panic. It means my thoughts don’t buzz. They turn silent and then I can sleep, normally even without dreams!” 

Natasha and Clint both remained motionless as they listened to the words pouring out of their teammate, matching curls of fury and sudden horror whirling around their thoughts. Tony used _them_ to work out when he should put himself through this torture. He used them to estimate when he was being too difficult or abrasive and then tortured himself because of it. Or he used it as a way of slowing down his thoughts. The adrenaline crash from the terror must enable him to be able to sleep… How could they counteract that? He’d conditioned himself to respond to that method so he was able to sleep. 

Clint was unable to cover a wince as nausea joined the horror and rage, mingling together to create some new sensation that ought to be bottled and sold as a type of poison or something. He might as well as have taken a whip to Tony himself; it would have been a cleaner and kinder method of torture than this mental tangle of addiction combined with self-flagellation.

Tony’s endless spiel appeared to have petered out as the man aforementioned and Natasha were both looking at him. Had he made a sound to vocalise the horror running rampant throughout him? He must have. “Tony… I’m. I’m so sorry.” Jesus. His voice sounded _wrecked_. Nothing like the usual self-confident Hawkeye persona he had perfected.

Now Tony’s eyes were taking on a look that reflected the horror that must have been present in his. “No, no. Nothing! You’ve done nothing. It was my fault. It was good for me. I. I don’t know where to stop now that I’m Iron Man. That was who I had to be before, and I never _learnt_ where the lines were. I never understood it. When I was young Dad. Howard. told me, when he shut me away that’s when I knew I’d gone too far. But no one else gave me that message! Sometimes people seemed fine with my behaviour, and then they’d hate me for it. I had to be _Tony Stark_. That’s what people expected and wanted from me. But then I’d go too far and I’d get it wrong. So I’d do this. It brought be back down and reminds me who I was. What I was. And then when I’ve finished? When I can think normally again. I let myself out and my mind is quiet. I…I can sleep.”

Clint wrapped his arms around the man sitting next to him. He was powerless to stop himself from doing so. It was worse than he had imagined. Yet all made so much sense, in a horrific, twisted manner. Tony was trapped in this hellish cycle of continuing his Father’s abuse when he thought he needed punishing. He’d then worked out that after said horrifying experience he could sleep. The judgement was so skewed it made the archer’s brain hurt. How could they fix this? He and Tash weren’t going to be able to fix this. This was going to require shrinks, and Phil. Lots of Phil. 

“Thank you, Tony.” Came Natasha’s voice, still with that lilting accent, and how the hell was she sounding so calm anyway? Why didn’t her voice get to go all cracky-sounding and upset like his was? Fucking Russians. As Clint held Tony securely within his embrace, he felt a third arm rest lightly on the billionaire’s shoulders. Natasha. That showed how shaken she was by this explanation, that she was giving the man a semi-hug? That was big. 

“Now? Now we know where to work on. You can be infuriating, and difficult to work with, and all those sorts of things it’s true. But you aren’t bad enough that you have to do that to yourself as punishment. You need to learn to trust us enough that we’ll tell you when you go too far. We will. None of us are the type to not _tell_ you when you’ve gone too far, apart from Banner, and he has other ways of showing when he’s annoyed. You are a uniquely wonderful man, Tony. Built on so many contradictions that books could be written on your psyche.”

“Heh.” Clint had to interject, fiercely ignoring how his voice still wavered slightly. That just didn’t happen to Agents of SHIELD. Nope… “Those books would be like skin mags for shrinks, I swear Tones.” 

Natasha levelled an eyebrow at him before continuing as though she were uninterrupted; “You’re a genius, Tony. You can learn. Clint and I. We will teach you. _We will not abandon you._ ” At those words some of the steely strength the assassin was so renowned for shone through her voice just daring Tony to disbelieve her. Weaker men had collapsed to their knees on hearing such tones from her, gibbering in their attempts to appease her slightest whim.” 

Tony remained silent, locked in the embrace of the deadly duo as Natasha’s words ran through his brain. They could help him? But why wouldn’t they get bored with him? Or so annoyed that they did end up leaving? Everyone else did. Yet… Natasha she sounded so sincere. He knew that she lied for a living, but since they’d all become a Team she truly had lied very little. Brutal honesty and terror were much more her weapons of choice to keep them all in line. 

“Hey, Tony? Tash is right, you know? She isn’t lying or anything like that. We… We will help you. This whole sleeping thing, it’s become an addiction man. Trust you to go to the hard route, hey? Most folks go for becoming adrenaline junkies. You’ve become addicted to the crash. We’ll find another way for you to rest. We will. I promise.” Tony felt a slight movement to his right, where Natasha was, indicating a nod of agreement.

“Clint’s right. I will not sugar-coat it for you. I am Russian, we do not do that. It may require going to see doctors and medication. But you have been coping with this for longer than you’ve been on the team, and very rarely let it affect you. We will not let anyone try to suspend you, брат” ((My brother))

How did the infernal woman always know what he was thinking? His concerns. Sometimes he was so sure that she was a telepath… Freaky. Would they really do that? Do all those things, for him? Just for him? “…Why?” such a deceptively simple word, but with so much loaded behind it. Why were they helping him? Why did they care? There was little gain they could get from it that he could see. Just… why? 

Clint laughed, a cracked and broken sound that made Tony cringe. “Because we’re evil bastards who want you for nothing more than your money. We’re hoping that you’re suddenly going to turn to us and go ‘Oh wow! Thanks guys! You’re awesome therapists, have fifty thousand dollars as payment. Each’ That forced a laugh from the billionaire currently ensconced in possibly the safest location known to the world. When he put it like that… How had he known that a part of Tony instinctually believed that they were just doing this for money like so many others who claimed to be his friends? Making a joke about it just completely dispelled the notion. Made it impossible. 

Natasha, lifted her eyes that had previously been resting on Tony to focus on Clint, nearly causing him to wince with the laser intensity of her glare. He knew what she was willing him to say. And she knew that he knew it. The only oblivious one was the genius in between them. Yet… could he do it? What if Tony didn’t feel the same, how would he feel about relying on someone who had just admitted that they had a massive crush on him? What if he didn’t like guys? That was possible. Now just wasn’t the time. Later. Maybe. 

At the minute head-shake that Clint offered her, so slight that Stark shouldn’t even note the sensation, Natasha spiked one eyebrow, and ratcheted her glare up a notch. Hah. That _did_ make him wince. There really was a certain sense of satisfaction derived from making someone, particularly Barton, wince at just her expression.

Scary Natasha. Scary. Did she even realise how much terror she could inspire with just her eyes? Even people who didn’t know her capabilities could be made nervous just by looking at her. If you knew what she was capable of? Then you were lucky if your pants didn’t gain some suspicious new stains… 

“Well…. There’s also another reason. Sort of. For me, anyway, not one for Natasha!” As he spoke, Natasha’s hand shifted slightly so that her fingers were in contact with Clint’s own, something that he derived surprising amounts of confidence from. If she believed he was doing the right thing, then there was a damn good chance that she knew what the result would be. Although she frequently pretended otherwise, she was inordinately protective of him, and would not allow him to come to serious harm. 

“I – I. Well…You see….” As the archer stammered in a way so unlike him, Tony turned his gaze to focus on him. Those bright, intelligent eyes zeroed in on his own, reading all he was trying to say and more with a skill that he had previously only attributed to people such as Sitwell, or other high-end Agents. Not Natasha or Phil’s level, but still pretty damn high. This was the man who could successfully read a room full of people and persuade them to buy whatever he was trying to sell.

Those gorgeous brown eyes widened, shock visible at what they’d observed, before narrowing once more and swinging around to stare at the red-haired assassin. Clint remained silent, allowing Tony to think in peace. He didn’t quite know what the genius had taken from his visage, but he hoped that it was the truth. Assuming it was? Now the ball was in Tony’s court. 

Tony was unable to prevent himself from turning his stare to Natasha. Weren’t she and Clint…? He’d thought that they… Yet she didn’t seem annoyed at the pure love that was shining from Clint’s eyes. Shining at _him_ of all people. Him. Tony Stark. No one ever loved him. He was surprised that he could even recognise the emotion in Clint’s eyes. 

As the silence continued, Tony’s gaze swung back to Clint, drawn to his face like a magnet. “You… you care for me?” He couldn’t say that ‘l’ word. Not yet. Clint nodded, all emotions now concealed by a well-practised mask. “I thought that you and Natasha…?” 

At that, Natasha broke into a laugh, an honest sound of merriment that sounded so wrong in the tension of the room. “Never, Tony. We’re partners, and close ones, but we’ve never and will never be in that form of a relationship.” 

“Oh.” Was the response, before Tony re-directed his attention to Clint once more and in a propriety-that-he-never-exactly-gave-two-shits-about be damned move, leant in and softly placed his lips against Clint’s own. 

Clint’s shoulders dropped as the fear that had steadily been growing drained away as though someone had punctured the balloon containing it. With a hungry growl, he pressed his lips back against the engineer’s astonishingly soft lips, taking all that Tony had to give and offering it back tenfold. 

Natasha, seeing the other two were wholly distracted, quietly extracted herself from the group embrace and stole herself away from the room. She re-entered Tony’s bedroom, re-made the bed including turning down the covers invitingly and switched on the lamp resting next to Tony’s bed. “JARVIS? Make sure they make their way here eventually and eat those sandwiches please,” she uttered in her soft, accented voice, nodding at his agreement before padding to the elevator and making her way to the gym to report to Rogers. That was a distinctly satisfying turn to the evening. 

~*~ One Year, Nine Months, Fourteen Days, Twenty Hours, Thirty-Two Minutes and Forty Three Seconds Later ~*~

“Tony? Tony. Come on, love, it’s time.” Tony glanced up from the…something… he was attempting to build? Fix? Do something to at any rate as the tones of his lover rang through his workshop. Clint didn’t sound remotely annoyed with him, despite the fact that he’d been down here for…a length of time? Something that still amazed Tony to this day. Anyway. It was time, apparently. Not a moment too soon according to the sudden clamour being raised from his head and back now that his haze caused by engineering had been dissipated. 

“Really, Clint? I just need to…” The suddenly-exhausted engineer allowed his tired frame to lean backwards slightly on his stool, knowing that the solidly built archer was there for him as a pillar. Over the past nearly two years, the archer had always been there for him. A towering, stalwart pillar of strength. He had pushed him to go and see doctors, go on medication, _talk_ to people in a way that Tony had never before been able to do. When Tony had believed he was at the end of his rope, Clint had smacked him round the head and tartly informed him that he didn’t waste his time on people who gave up. 

In return? Tony had been there for him when Natasha had been badly injured and everyone bar Clint and Tony had doubted she’d survive. He’d comforted the archer when the man woke screaming from his own nightmares. He’d saved the man he loved’s ass in battle more times than either of them cared to count. They truly were a Team. Partners. He’d tracked down Clint’s remaining family, met them without Clint knowing to ascertain their personalities, and then casually introduced Clint to them. He’d done the same for Natasha. 

Natasha had been the ‘guardian angel’ of their relationship, although she’d beat him if he ever informed her of that. She’d talked them through problems and difficulties both individually and separately. She told them when they were being idiots, and would frequently laugh at them to their faces. Natasha would frequently spend hours discussing interpersonal relationships with Tony. They would dissect characteristics of people who they knew and just people they saw on the television, all aiming at helping Tony to understand limits. 

Phil? He’d come up with the genius idea of ‘roleplaying’ and not the kinky kind, to Tony’s initial disappointment. By creating characters and developing an understanding of how they worked and the interpersonal relationships they could have with each other, Tony began to understand even more about knowing his own limits and other strategies for dealing with ‘being too much of Tony Stark. 

Steve… he’d come to Tony a week after Clint and he had originally got together and had apologised for not realising the difficulties Tony had been going through. Tony had initially had a brief panic attack at realising someone who he respected so much had known about the difficulties he’d been having, but Phil, of all people, had talked him down from it. From then, Tony and Steve had taken to sparring as a way of trying to aid with Tony’s physical exhaustion. Sometimes it helped. Steve had also taken to spending more time in Tony’s workshop too, being careful to express both disappointment and pleasure in Tony’s actions so that Tony grew to understand both. 

All of these actions were endorsed by the shrink who Tony still saw on a bi-weekly basis. 

Rome was not built in a day, and neither was Tony Stark fixed instantly just because he had found True Love. Clint and he still argued like cat and dog, on occasion. Tony still behaved on occasion outrageously, and drove everyone to frustration. He still on occasion even felt the need to punish himself for it, yet always managed to tell either Clint or Natasha beforehand and they helped deal with the fallout.

“Tony…” The tone took on a hint of amusement underneath the phony scolding attitude. “You’ve been in here for approaching thirty-five hours now. That’s your time limit without sleep, bub. Save it and bed time.” 

Tony nodded, doing his best to ignore the thoughts that were still buzzing around through his head about potential upgrades he could make, and new projects he could build. “Can I have the blindfold tonight, Clint?” 

Two impossibly firm arms wrapped around him in a tender embrace as the archer breathed against his back. “Of course, going to be a bad night?”

“Possibly. I’ve just got these ideas, and I can’t get them to the front of my head to work out what they are, but I know they’re…something?” 

Clint laughed, a rich, baritone sound that reverberated throughout Tony’s body, and why was he laughing when there was so much frustration in his boyfriend’s voice anyway? That just wasn’t nice. “Bastard…” Tony grumbled, closing his eyes and relaxing his head against Clint’s neck. “Not meant to find my frustration funny.”

As Clint’s laughter turned into the more common snicker, Tony leant his weight forward again so that he was once more supporting his own weight. With a tired sigh, he pushed himself to his feet before turning around and greeting his boyfriend with a long overdue kiss. “Love you.” Clint murmured around the interlocking of their lips. He was a soppy bastard in that way. All about the romantic gestures. 

“Love you too,” the engineer replied as their lips broke apart and they began walking to the bedroom they shared on Clint’s floor. The jokes the others on the Team had made when Tony had moved into Clint’s room. Everyone had apparently expected it to be the other way around. 

As they arrived, hand in hand, Clint reached out with his spare hand and snagged a piece of black fabric that was lying innocently on the bedside table. He turned to face his boyfriend once more and leant in for a further kiss, lifting his hands as he did so to tie the blindfold on. They only broke apart long enough just prior to Tony’s being completely obscured for Clint to send him the same soft and gentle smile that he always did so that Tony had that visual in his mind to accompany the darkness. Without breaking apart, he then reached down and, with the ease of long-practise, swiftly shucked down the jeans Tony was wearing. Tony, remaining completely silent as was usual once the blindfold was on, stepped out the puddle of clothing on the floor keeping one hand firmly wrapped around Clint’s forearm for reassurance. 

Clint sat the pair of them on the bed and began running his hands up and down Tony’s arms, the motions strictly intended to be platonic rather than arousing his boyfriend with the intensely high sex-drive. The pair of them had found that by a combination of sight-deprivation and additional skin contact that Tony’s mind could be forced into focusing on just one thing. Physical contact. This normally enabled his active mind to gradually drop into sleep. It could take a long time – had taken the pair over an hour before now, but was much preferable to the adrenaline crash from terror that Tony had utilised before. 

Clint, already ready for bed, helped the unresisting Tony to lie on the bed and settled himself next to him. He locked their feet together, legs entwining until it was difficult to tell the pair apart. “JARVIS, lights please.” 

The AI obligingly plunged the room into darkness with a soft “Goodnight, Sirs. Sleep well.” Within an hour all was silent within the room bar the easy, deep breaths of two males safely in slumber.


End file.
